Shadows
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: Post- Reichenbach- John is alone until he recieves a strange text from an unfamiliar number. But what will happen if he follows the orders? Don't really want to say much because it might spoil it. : rated T for mild language and some violent scenes. Reference to drug use, anorexia and attempted suicide in later chapters
1. Chapter 1 The End of The End

Shadows 

**Disclaimer: I do not own these wonderful characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and, in this case, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. What also belong to them are the small references to The Reichenbach Fall. Thank you so much BBC! **

**The story, however, is completely made up, along with some of the victims/ murderers.**

_A/n: this is my first ever fanficition so please, please be nice . And please, please review I want to know what you all think! If its rubbish, please tell me what to do to make it better, constructive criticism is welcome! _

Chapter 1- the end of the end

JW-

Wednesday 16th Nov

When I woke up, I was aware of 3 things:

1. I was crying

2. I was crying because of Sherlock

3. It was exactly 5 months today since he died.

Well. Killed himself.

Why the hell did he kill himself?

I sat up, my heart pounding and head spinning. I was breathing heavily and tears streamed from my eyes. I tried to rub them away.

I remembered that day. He told me he was a fake, that he had researched me, that he'd invented Moriarty. He'd jumped off a building. I'd watched him fall. Watched him hit the ground.

And now I was back in my old flat, just how it had started after the war like a horrific déjà vu. As if it had all been a dream. As if he'd never existed.

I had nightmares every night again. Nightmares of Him. Every night I woke up with my face wet from sobbing, my left hand shaking and my breathing ragged. I lost him over and over again. Every night.

Yet after all of that, my psychiatrist still insisted that I wrote a blog.

I'd started seeing her again every week, because I just didn't know what else to do. What could I do?

All I had had inside me was a terrible hollow emptiness that left me numb and cold. It was as if my heart had been cut out. The hole hurt. It hurt terribly.

Oh god it hurt.

My psychiatrist told me that it was perfectly normal, but I never missed the worry in her eyes after I told her. I knew it wasn't normal.

I hated seeing her. But it got me out the flat. Otherwise I never went out. I couldn't go out. How could I when every street held memories. Memories of Him. Memories of us.

But he was gone and he was never coming back.

Suddenly it hit me in a wave of terrible pain. It overwhelmed me. It felt like a knife twisting in my chest. I was shaking and sweating. I gasped sharply, doubling over with the pain, hugging myself tightly.

And then I gave in. I curled up and let the tears stream onto my pyjama bottoms as my shoulders shook violently. I had to release my emotions. Especially today. All I could see was Him. The hole burned and twisted.

It took me a while to compose myself and I rubbed my eyes.

I stared across at the bland desk. My laptop was open, screen blank. I couldn't stand seeing blank and empty, so I got up from the bed and turned it on, subconsciously opening the blog.

Now what? I stared at the page.

It was too hard. Too hard to look at the old blogs, the adventures we had had. The comments we'd left. Too hard to even see the last comment posted last June:

'He was my best friend and I will always believe in him.'

5 blasted months on and I still believed in him. Somewhere in this burning hollow shell I still believed that I was going to wake up in Baker Street, in my room, and find Him lying across the couch, 3 nicotine patches on his bare arm, eyes closed, fingers pressed to his chin as if in prayer. The same old thing.

But not anymore.

Never again.

I reached for the tissues, and wiped my eyes, then pinched the bridge of my nose. I'm a soldier, I shouldn't cry. I didn't usually cry. Usually, I could contain my emotions.

When did I ever get so dependent on that man? That arrogant, stuck up, brilliant, wonderful man.

He had changed my worthless life, become my best friend.

And then he had just left me on my own. With nothing.

Well. Committed suicide.

Tears flooded my eyes again.

I blinked to clear my eyes, then gasped.

I had somehow updated my blog with a new comment:

_'Sherlock why did you have to go?'_

Did I really just write that? I hadn't written a thing since it happened.

God help me.

I felt that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. A hopelessness came over me which I could not control. I felt myself sinking, deeper and deeper into the darkness. The hole hurt so badly.

Oh god, not this.

I practically ran to the bathroom, my fumbling fingers searching for the open packet of anti-depressants my psychiatrist had subscribed to me after I'd hit a real low. I swallowed it without water and stood in the bathroom doorway silently, leaning heavily on the door frame, eyes closed, trying to fight the depression. I'd suffered from it for months now. I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve and sighed.

I felt trapped. I felt numb and empty.

I wanted to…

NO! STOP IT JOHN!

I couldn't think that. Ever.

It took me longer than it should have to realise the strange buzzing noise was a text coming through. I'd been cut off for so long, I'd given up the use of my phone. It was still in my bag. The bag I'd taken here when it had become too unbearable to stay at my old flat.

Our old flat.

_No! Shut up John, you idiot!_ Said a detached hollow part of myself. The pain in my chest made me gasp.

I unzipped my bag and found my phone. It felt strange to hold it in my hand. I unlocked it long enough to see the text.

Meet me at Lauriston Gardens, Brixton

That was it. Meet me at Lauriston Gardens. It was from a number I didn't recognise at all.

The detached John looked at it warily, sensing danger. Probably some psychopath who had gotten hold of my number and was bored.

It was funny really how the word 'bored' caused my heart to ache for my best friend. Caused my heart to twist.

But I didn't listen to myself. Numbly, I texted back, not really caring:

Who are you?

It took less than a minute to reply:

Come to Lauriston Gardens, Brixton

Yep, definitely a psychopath. Oddly enough I didn't care. I actually didn't care if they were or not. What did it matter anyway? My life was a worthless mass of nightmares and psychiatrist meetings and visits to His grave. What did I have to lose? It would be an adventure anyway. My last adventure.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, not bothering with the gun I'd put back in the same draw I'd kept it last time. What was the point of having one? I pulled on a jumper, locked up, caught a cab and drove off to Lauriston Gardens.

It was only then did I realise that it was at Lauriston Gardens that Sherlock and I had found our first case.

The Study In Pink.

I nearly started sobbing again.

_'Sherlock what the hell did you do to me?'_ I rubbed my eyes to make sure they were dry.

"Here you are," the cabbie pulled over and I got out, tossing him some money with a word of thanks.

It was very quiet.

Of course it was quiet, it was 3.30 in the morning. I reminded myself with a humourless laugh. I hadn't checked the time until now. I glanced across the empty, rain streaked road and started walking down the wet street, trying to force myself not to remember the last time I'd been here with Him. I straightened my back and swallowed my tears, ignoring the throbbing pain in my chest. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, hugging my chest. As if it would help keep me in one piece.

I forced myself to stop somewhere along the street.

I pulled out my phone and texted the stranger:

I'm here.

I stood and waited, my back to the house where we'd discovered the body. It was too painful to look at. To remember. I guess this is all I had to do. Just stand and wait. I wondered if it really was a psychopath and if this was my last moment. It seemed strangely welcoming.

God I needed stronger anti- depressants…

"You came,"

The voice came from behind me. Sad and weak and cracked. My entire body went rigid, my phone slipped from my trembling fingers and smashed on the floor.

No, it couldn't be.

No.

No,no,no,no,no!

He's dead!

_'Great, now I'm hallucinating!'_

"John?"

I just kept my back turned, eyes tightly shut.

I'm hallucinating, I'm hallucinating. Maybe it will pass. _'My psychiatrist is going to have a fit if I tell her this_'. I thought, slightly frightened myself for my own sanity. Was I really missing him that much? My chest started burning again. I struggled to keep standing.

I shook my head sharply as if to get rid of an irksome fly.

He's dead! It's not him. It can't be him.

I tried to regain my senses. I took deep, shuddering breaths and tried to calm down.

The voice had gone. I thought it had stopped.

I was about to relax.

But then it started again.

"John please look at me,"

The voice had moved to in front of me now.

Oh god I'm going mad.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

But then the depressed part of me reasoned. Would it matter, really, if I opened my eyes? It was just a voice after all. As soon as I open my eyes I'll realise that I am crazy after all, that it's just a voice, but who cares? I'll just go back to my meaningless life again after. Nothing will change.

So I open my eyes.


	2. Chapter 2 The Ghost

Chapter 2- the Ghost

_A/n: I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, followed and favourited my story! I'm really glad you liked it! _

_Here is the second chapter- I really hope it doesn't disappoint you!_

_Again, please, please review I want to know what you think and if I can improve. Constructive criticism is welcome!_

JW

And I nearly faint.

He is there. Standing solidly in front of me. Black coat buttoned up with the collar turned up at the back like he always used to because he thought it looked cool. His mess of curls slightly longer and more unruly. More pale. But there.

Sherlock...

_Oh. My. God…_

"Hello John,"

My heart was pounding violently. Hot and cold shivers kept running down my body. I felt numb. I couldn't think. I could hardly breathe. There was a moment when I was too stunned to speak; my jaw had dropped to the ground. My breathing grew ragged.

Then that moment ended.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I yell before I can stop myself.

And then I punch him. Hard. Around the face. Maybe it was to see if he was real and not a ghost come to haunt me. Maybe it was to see if he was hallucination. But to be honest I had no idea why I did it. Maybe I was angry, because some part of me was. Some part of me was furious.

My fist connected with his face; I watched him stumble with the force.

My body was in turmoil. The pain in my chest was blinding. I couldn't stop the storm of emotions that suddenly swept me up.

Anger, fear, pain, sadness, disbelief, joy, confusion. It all took hold of me, and suddenly, before I could stop, I was sobbing. Sobbing so hard I could hardly stand up. I watched as he recovered himself, his lip and nose bleeding. I found it hard to breathe.

It must have been the depression. I hadn't cried this hard since the day after his funeral. I shouldn't cry, I was a soldier.

I had never acted like this for anything before. Not even in Afghanistan.

"John please stop," he begged, face pale.

"STOP?!"I choked, "YOU! YOU B********! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD YOU SELFISH B*********!

I lunged for him again. But this time he caught me, gripping my arms tightly.

"John,"

"NO!"

I wrenched my hand from his grip, hardly daring to look at him.

"YOU'RE DEAD! YOU… ARE BLOODY DEAD! I- I SAW YOU..." I stuttered to a halt, mouth still gaping. I couldn't utter the word. I couldn't. My chest hurt.

"I.I.I thought you were dead," I whispered. Suddenly the energy sapped out of me and my shoulders slumped. I hung my head. I was trembling. The world was spinning.

"But I'm not,"

"Why?"

He looked terribly confused for a moment. And blank, as if waiting for his body to give an emotional response.

"You want me to be dead? He asked, frowning.

"No that's not what I meant," I mumbled, "I meant, why..." I paused, rephrased, "How are you still alive?"

"I. I planned," he said evasively. Still, somehow, waiting for an emotional response from himself.

Suddenly the situation hit me like brick wall. Sherlock was standing in front of me, as if he'd never left. As if he hadn't died.

Which he had. I saw him jump.

Yet he was ALIVE!

I swayed. The world spun.

Suddenly, his hands were on my shoulders, steadying me.

"Are you ok?" he asked, emotion thick in his voice. I was numbly surprised by this emotion. He didn't usually have emotion.

"Why in the world would I be ok, Sherlock?" I asked weakly, "I've just witnessed my friend come back from the dead. How can I be ok?" for the first time, my eyes met his blue ones.

They closed, as if in pain.

"I'm. I'm. I'm sorry John," he stammered, so unlike Sherlock that it just convinced me more that I was dreaming, "I should of told you sooner,"

And then, he hugged me. Tightly. Not romantically, but as a friend would. Like he actually cared about me.

It was the most wonderful thing in the world.

But god he was thin. I could feel his ribs.

"Oh god I missed you John," he said, his voice barely there, "I missed you so much,"

I had never seen him this emotional.

I tried to pull back, but his arms tightened around my waist, keeping me there.

"Don't, please," he pleaded.

"Then why did you go!?" I cried, suddenly sobbing again. God I was a state. I knew I was, "Why did you kill yourself?"

He drew away, pain burning in his eyes.

"Technically, I didn't kill myself, I pretended to kill myself to save you. my." he paused. Swallowed. Looked straight at me, "my only friend,"

For the second time since I'd known him, tears swam in his eyes. The last time was when he had said goodbye, on the building. I had managed to see the tear rolling down his cheek even from a distance.

I was stunned, as I had been then, from the enormity of the emotions of which he usually kept distant to.

"To save me?" I whispered. He nodded frantically.

"Moriarty had 3 rifles trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I couldn't let you die John. You are the only friend I've ever had and I wasn't going to let them shoot you. It was my fault you were in danger in the first place,"

"So you faked your death to save me, then went into hiding?" I asked, flabbergasted. He nodded, "but why didn't you tell me before? Why did you tell me all that crap that Moriarty was right and it was all fake?" my voice trembled.

"I had to make you believe I was a fake. You had to believe I was dead, to keep you safe. Believe me, it was one of the most painful things I have ever had to do, and I've done a lot," pain flashed in his eyes again, and cracked the blank mask.

"So why now?" I whispered, voice shaking.

"Moriarty's group of gun men have been caught. It's safe for now,"

"Jesus Sherlock," was all I managed. I reached out and touched his arm. It was there. Real, solid, alive.

I couldn't believe that after five months. Five months of believing he was dead, five months of depression, five months of a worthless life, where I couldn't stop myself from hoping, he was here. Talking to me.

Once again the tears came.

"I can't believe you're back," I whispered, "I. I was a wreck without you. Like time had reversed and I'd just come back from the blasted war with those damn nightmares and no way out. Like you'd never existed,"

I stopped and flung my arms around him, burying my head in his shoulder and breathing in his scent. He was there. I wasn't angry any more, just happy he was here.

And more than a bit shocked.

"Don't ever do that to me again you selfish b******,"

"Why do you keep calling me that?" he asked, frustrated, patting me on the back unsurely, "you've said that 3 times now,"

He was back to the normal Sherlock now. Emotionless Sherlock.

Did that mean he was real?

"Sorry, I just. I can't believe it,"

At that moment, I suddenly remembered something I'd said ages ago.

_One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me… don't. Be. Dead. Could you do that? Just for me…_

Then I was laughing. Really laughing. Almost hysterically.

"John?" Sherlock looked concerned, almost unnerved as he witnessed my emotional breakdown, "Are you ok?"

"Looks like you did do a miracle after all," I gasped. He looked more than concerned now. He looked frightened. And confused. I decided I needed to explain.

"After your… Your funeral, I stood for ages at your grave, and asked you to do another miracle for me. For you not to be dead. It seems like it's true after all. You did do a miracle,"

"Oh," realisation hit his face, "that's what you were saying. I did wonder..."

"What?" horrified, I looked up at him, "you were there?"

_Jesus Christ I bet I looked like a right moron…_

"Of course I was," he sounded annoyed, "are you really that much of an idiot?"

"I thought you were dead," I reminded him pointedly. He studiously looked away.

"But you didn't hear me?" I asked, hoping. God knows what he must of thought of me if he did.

"I saw you crying," a small smile quirked his lips.

"Oh god," I felt myself blush, which was terrible.

"Did you really miss me that much?" he sounded dubious.

"Sherlock, you are my best friend," I said empathetically, "and you just left me on my own to cope with your so called death!"

"I've said sorry already,"

"And you think that suffices? One sorry for 5 months of depression?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, not in the slightest bit surprised to hear of my depression. Though I guessed he'd already deduced that from me.

"I know," I sighed. Then I glanced at my watch. It was 4.00.

"What do we do now Sherlock?" I asked, gesturing around me. He gazed vacantly at the building behind me, ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Do you remember the Study In Pink John?"

"Of course I do," I sighed.

"Our first case," he blinked then looked back to me. Once again sorrow filled his eyes.

"I came to tell you I was alive, now you know. But you can't tell anyone. I'm in hiding. From the press mainly,"

"Of course I won't tell anyone," I scoffed.

"Good," he turned, "goodbye John,"

Oh those bloody words! They gave me chills.

I shook my head and grabbed his arm.

"Wait! What are you doing?"

"I have to go into hiding,"

"Wait! You're going to just leave me again?" my chest started to hurt again.

"Of course,"

"No," my voice cracked.

"Yes! I have to go!"

"Then I'm coming with you!" I said simply. There was no way I was staying on my own. _No way._

"I'm not putting you in danger,"

"I don't care!" I shouted, pounding his arm, "you know I don't care! Do you think I give a damn about my safety? Do you have any idea what these past 5 months have been like for me?"

"Actually yes," he squinted at me, before he opened his mouth.

"Shut up!" I waved him away, knowing I was about to get deduced. Again! "Don't do that thing on me!"

He probably knew exactly what it had been like.

"I wasn't about to do 'that thing'," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw, "I was about to tell you that it was the same for me. I.I was. Bored..."

I snorted.

"That's new," I said sarcastically.

"No, more bored. It seems that you make the days more. Exciting,"

I grimaced. That statement had sounded incredibly gay.

Sherlock grimaced too, frowning down at me. He probably realised too.

"You know I'm not good at emotions, John," he said frustrated, "I don't understand them,"

"Well you did damn well before," I mumbled,

He had just hugged me and declared that I was his best friend. This was a very un-Sherlock- like thing to do to be honest.

Especially as I was still having a hard time believing he was actually there.

He pressed his fingers together as if in prayer. The tips touched his chin as he closed his eyes.

"What I'm trying to say is that." he stopped again, trying to find the right words, "I. I. I missed my. Friend, John. I missed you,"

I blinked.

"You've said," I said to him, trying hard not to smile. I knew it was hard for him to say 'friend'.

"It's true, I've said it before as well,"

"Yeah but then you were trying to get me to work with you again. That one hardly counts," I snorted. He had been trying to apologise for his terrible behaviour the night before, when we were in Baskerville.

"Yes, but it's true all the same," he sighed warily.

"thanks," I said, awkwardly.

He then took out his phone, started texting someone.

I stared at it. It brought back horrible memories.

"I thought you threw that away on the… The building," I said hoarsely.

"I did. I fetched it later,"

I bit my lip to force back the tremor.

"Mycroft?" I asked vaguely. He raised his eyebrows.

"Good! Very good! You're learning," he sounded- proud?

I snorted. I was still shocked. Still believed I was dreaming.

"It's not hard. It's usually either me, Lestrade or Mycroft. You're not going to text me, Lestrade thinks you're a fake, so it has to be Mycroft,"

"You're right," he said as the phone beeped a reply. He glanced at it then put it away. He turned to me, grinning.

"Are you ready to go home John?"

My heart fluttered like a trapped butterfly.

Oh god how I missed Baker Street.

"I can come with you?" I whispered.

"It seems Mycroft has deemed you worthy," his smile was a bit tight as he mentioned Mycroft's name.

I smiled, finding myself unable to speak.

"You didn't answer my question, John?" he said frowning.

"What?" I was slightly distracted by the joy that had suddenly filled me.

"Are you ready to come home?" he squinted at me again, as of trying to deduce my answer.

"Oh God yes," I said before I can stop myself.

A small smile curved his lips.

"Then come on Doctor Watson, you can tell me all about that night after the funeral,"

"For God's sake Sherlock," I groaned, knowing he was referring to the night I slept by his grave, "did you stalk me or something?"

"I made sure you were safe," he said simply, "if you want to call it stalking then yes, I was. I watched you every day to make sure you were- coping- I'm so sorry,"

At his words, a sudden terrible dread filled me to the brim.

_Please don't say you saw._ I thought desperately. I didn't ask him yet though. I couldn't.

Instead, I walked by his side in silence. I was so weird doing this again. Having my best friend back by my side after 5 months of nothing. I couldn't seem to think straight.

I suppose I couldn't put it off any longer.

"Did you... umm…Did you see me on St Bart's?" I swallowed painfully, dreading the answer.

_'Please say no...'_

I saw his jaw tightened, his eyes turn frosty.

"Yes I saw, it took a personal death threat from Mycroft and a hand around my mouth to stop me calling out to you," he was angry. More than angry, he was furious. I could see the fury burning in his eyes. I was stunned.

"Why the bloody hell did you do that!" he burst out furiously, making me feel terrible. He turned and grabbed my shoulders tightly, forcing me to look at him.

"You should know really," I said haughtily, "you are my best friend and my life seemed meaningless without you. I was depressed Sherlock!" I cried flinging my hands up in the air, "it felt like I'd been flung down a dark tunnel and I couldn't get out! I wanted it to end!" my voice cracked and I closed my eyes.

"Thank God it didn't," Sherlock grumbled.

A black Mercedes was pulled up. Black tinted windows reflected the empty street.

Sherlock got in, I followed him.

Mycroft was in the front seat. The strange girl I'd fancied who had given me the name Anthea was driving.

"Good morning Dr Watson," he said mildly, "so glad you could join us, given your recently suicidal tendencies,"

"I. Was. Depressed!" I said through gritted teeth.

"I know. I was the one who told your useless Psychiatrist to give you anti-depressants. You really should fire her you know,"

"I was planning on it," I muttered truthfully. She'd started to annoy the hell out of me.

"So, I think you should know what you're dealing with," he said, changing the subject, "Sherlock begged me to let him see you and tell you he was alive, and next thing I know, he's texting me asking if you could stay. I said yes because I worry about him," he reprimanded me in the wing mirror, while Sherlock grimaced. The shock at his words caused my brain to crash. I couldn't believe Sherlock had begged for me.

"Ok?" I said, unsure.

"So now you, too are undercover. In hiding. Whatever you want to call it. This means that no one should know you're here. It shouldn't be a problem seeing as you cut yourself off from everything anyway. But it is essential that no one knows Sherlock is alive,"

"Wait, so you and me are the only ones who know?"

"Molly," said Sherlock shortly. I turn to him. He's taken up his favourite position again. Fingers pressed together, touching chin. His renowned thinking pose.

God how I'd missed him.

"What?" I asked. He opens his eyes.

"Molly knows too. She helped me arrange my... Suicide,"

I winced. I couldn't help it. Mycroft eyed me sympathetically. I blushed.

"So she's in hiding too?" I asked, covering my tracks.

"Of a sort," was the only response I got.

"Right," I settled into the seat, watching as the familiar buildings around Baker Street began to appear.

Finally it pulled up.

_221B Bakers Street, god how I've missed you!_

I got out of the car.

"Oh and Dr Watson?"

I turned to see Mycroft's face peering out of the rolled down window.

"Look after him," he nodded to Sherlock, who was opening the door. I nodded and watched the Mercedes disappear down the road. I didn't trust Mycroft much, especially after he blabbed to Moriarty about Sherlock's life story.

I turned to Sherlock.

"Does Mrs Hudson know?" I asked him warily. I was suddenly shattered, as if the morning's events had sapped me of all energy.

"No,"

"Oh," I said surprised, "so is this a surprise to her?"

"According to Mycroft she moved to live with her sister after you left. Looks like she found the silence too disturbing,"

"Oh god," guilt twisted my stomach. I'd left her alone to deal with THAT? I felt terrible.

"You feel guilty," he mused, regarding me with a raised eyebrow, "why?"

"I left her here alone," I said, mortified, "god knows what it was like!"

"Hmmm" was all he said in response. He pushed open the door, the familiar smell came rushing to greet me. I felt giddy with relief. With disbelief. We mounted the stairs and opened the door into my flat.

Our flat.

I slid down the side of the wall as a wave of dizziness swept over me. I couldn't believe what was happening.

"God it's good to be home," I sighed, feeling slightly emotional, at the sight of it. It was exactly how I'd left it. Empty coffee mug on the table, 5 month old newspapers folded on the side of the arm chair. The skull on the mantle- piece. The violin lying on the windowsill. It brought back all those terrible, heart-wrenching memories of loneliness, and pain.

It also reminded me that Sherlock was actually there.

"Are you ok?" Sherlock asked quietly, crouching down beside me.

"Yeah..." I swallowed painfully, "just in shock... That's all,"

He ran a hand through my hair, surprising me, but soothing me too. It was as if he was consoling me.

Finally, I managed to stand shakily and made my way over to the arm chair.

I sank into it, pinching the bridge of my nose to stop any threatening tears.

"Hmmm sentiment," Sherlock remarked. I snorted.

"Says the one who hugged me and declared he missed me,"

"That was an emotional outburst, not sentiment," he said, flinging himself on the couch. He lay down and closed his eyes. Just like old times.

Just like it should be.

"Can I ask you something?" I said after a moment silence.

He grunted in response, in his favourite prayer position.

"Am I dreaming or are you really here? I'm not dead am I?"

I still didn't believe it.

He turned to give me a sideways glare.

"No you are not dead though you did give it your best shot,"

I groaned, slamming my hands down on the arms of the chair, "for God's sake!"

"I really am here," he said softly, sounding slightly amused, as though his last words were never spoken.

I blinked.

"Well that's better than being dead," I said, watching him snort.

"No kidding?" he said sarcastically.

Suddenly we were both laughing. Giggling like primary school kids. It was the best experience I'd had in 5 months.

"Can I ask you one more question?" I said, regaining myself with a hiccough. He looked at me, waiting.

"Can you never, ever do that again?" it was a serious question this time. One that I needed an answer to.

"I won't," he said solemnly, "I promise,"

And it was as if he'd.

We'd.

Never left.

"Did you really beg?" I asked, slightly amused.

"Yes I did, you are my friend. I missed you. Is that enough?" he said it quickly, as if he was embarrassed. I smiled and chuckled at his uneasiness in admitting it.

"Yes, I'm just surprised,"

"Really John," he said, irritated.

"Ok, ok," I sat back in my favourite arm chair. I'd never felt so happy in my life.

"Thank you," I said quietly after a while, suddenly sombre again.

"For what?" he scoffed.

"For admitting you need me, for calling me a friend, for coming back… Everything," I watched closely his expression. The way it changed as I said those things, "god knows what would of happened if you didn't,"

"I think we both know," he said quietly.

And that was it. I lay my head back and closed my eyes, feeling happier than I had been for ages…

_A/n: This is quite a long one, so I apologise for that . Please review, please let me know what you think, it means a lot to me! Oh and just for future reference:_

_JW- John's POV_

_SH- Sherlock's POV_

_GL- Lestrade's POV_

_You get the idea…_

_Again- REVIEW PLEASE! _


	3. Chapter 3 Guilt

Chapter 3- Guilt

_A/n: oh my goodness! What did I do? I didn't get any reviews at all on my last chapter! Was it really bad? Did I disappoint you? Please tell me!_

_ok I think I forgot to mention about the' ****' things. I use these for particularly bad language that I don't really want to use. I'll leave it to your imagination! Don't worry though, I don't use them often!_

_In contrast to the last chapter, this one is quite short. I really need to sort out my chapter lengths _

_I really hope this one is better! I need reviews! Please don't be shy! Please enjoy and review!_

SH

Thursday 17th Nov

An hour later, John went to bed. I didn't mind. I knew that, generally, he needed more sleep than me.

But as soon as he left the room, I felt lonely again.

It was funny really, how John's absence had affected me.

It was a bit like a blind child didn't know it was blind until someone tells it.

It was like that with me soon after I'd met John. I didn't know I was lonely until I had John, and then lost him.

It had also shaken me to find out how much my absence had affected _him_. I knew he had been depressed, you could tell by the slightly slurred tone, caused by the anti- depressants and lines around his eyes. I also knew he had been having nightmares. You could tell by the dark shadows under his eyes and the haunted look he had in them. He was also thinner. You didn't need to be me to know that.

But I didn't know he had been suicidal.

Until that day.

Every day in those 5 months, I had watched him, made sure he was ok, checked his blog (not that he'd wrote anything), watched his flat.

One day, I'd found him on the edge of St Bart's.

Ready to jump.

Arms spread wide as if about to fly.

In that moment, I had never been so scared, so worried, so full of pain in my entire life. The pain of it had almost been worse than getting shot.

I had run for him, about to scream his name, tell him I was alive, and tell him to stop.

But Mycroft had stopped me.

Thank bloody god that some of the hospital staff, including Molly, had managed to stop him before he actually jumped.

I hadn't realised that anything could be so emotionally painful, especially for me.

I now knew what it was like to miss a friend. I also knew what it was like to see a friend almost die.

The idiot had scared me to death. (Ironically).

And to think that I had put John through all that…

I tried to remind myself that John wasn't a sociopath, so watching me jump and seemingly die before his eyes must have been terrible.

And much, much worse for him.

It was after this when I had started begging Mycroft. I realised that I needed John as much as he needed me.

I groaned into the cushion.

An unfamiliar twisting sensation knotted my stomach painfully. Some sort of emotion I couldn't suppress, I suppose, though I didn't know what it was.

Suddenly, I heard a shout from upstairs. I lifted my head and sat up. It was John who had shouted. How strange.

Then suddenly:

"Sherlock!" he screamed.

I sprang to my feet and raced up the stairs, blood pumping with adrenaline. God how good would it be if it was a thief. Some excitement!

I smashed open the door and leapt into the room.

There was no one there. John was sleeping in his bed, face contorted with. Was it pain? I wasn't sure. But there was no one there. Suddenly disappointed, and more than a bit confused, I turned to go. Then:

"Sherlock, no!"

I turned again, John was asleep but his arm was outstretched, his body quaking with sobs. Tears were on his cheeks. The sheets were tangled around his legs from where he'd been thrashing. He was moaning and screaming.

It was then that it hit me.

It was a nightmare…

More than that.

It was a nightmare about me.

And I was willing to bet it was a nightmare about the day I jumped.

It terrified me to see him like this. So torn and broken and vulnerable.

The twisting in my stomach got worse, almost physical, and I felt slightly sick.

Should I wake him?

I saw his shuddering body.

I went to him, staring at his tear streaked face.

But before I could wake him, his body stilled, and it seemed like the dream had subsided.

I left feeling worse.

_A/n: Please let me know what you think! Is it ok?_


	4. Chapter 4 Understanding

Chapter 4- Understanding

_A/n: here is the fourth chapter! Thank you to everyone who reviewed yesterday it really does mean so much to me! Again, I really hope this doesn't disappoint you all! If it does TELL ME! How can I make it better if you don't tell me? _

_So, read, enjoy and please review xxx_

JW

Thursday 17th Nov

I woke up late in the afternoon, due to my being up all night, and was immediately disorientated and worried. I had had the nightmare again:

_I stood frozen on the pavement, my mind blank with confusion. I saw him up on the roof, heard him say goodbye through the phone. I shouted him desperately, my voice breaking. _

_Then he spread his arms and he was falling._

_It was as if time had slowed down..._

_His body fell through the sky, his arms flapping desperately._

_He fell_

_Down._

_Down._

_Down..._

I'd woken up with my cheeks glistening and my pillow wringing wet.

Then I remembered that this time, it _was_ just a dream.

Sherlock was here.

He wasn't dead!

I scrambled out of bed, pulled on my dressing gown and nearly fell down the flight of stairs in my haste to get to the lounge room.

Sherlock was exactly where I'd left him. Only he was staring at the ceiling. The site of him soothed me. The reminants of the nightmare faded slowly. I could breathe again.

Yet he was just staring at the ceiling.

I sighed.

"You haven't slept have you?" I said warily.

"No," he didn't even stir at the sound of my voice.

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking,"

I moved to the kitchen.

"Tea?"

"Yes, 2 sugars,"

"I know," I sighed.

I put the kettle on, put a tea bag both mugs. The kettle whistled then clicked. I poured the boiling water into the cups, stirred in 2 sugars in the tea, it reminded me again how weird it was to be making two cups again. I stirred in the milk, and headed over to the sofa.

I handed him the mug. He nodded at me.

It was as if the last 5 months had never happened.

Which was how I liked it. I didn't want to be reminded of anything to do with the last 5 months, and if that meant that we'd act as if nothing happened, that was fine with me.

I sat in the armchair across from him, blowing gently on the surface of my tea. I watched him carefully as if afraid he might disappear. He caught me watching.

"What?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

I shrugged and picked up the newspaper.

Before realising it was 5 months old with a very detailed article on Sherlock's suicide.

_Oh Jesus_.

That just made everything seem more surreal. I slammed it down and got up, setting my tea on the table.

"I'm going out," I said, thinking an escape to normality may soothe me.

His head snapped up.

"Why?"

I gestured to the newspaper, "I need to get a newspaper,"

He turned away again. I headed for the door.

"You can't," he said monotonously.

"What?" I turned.

"You can't go out. We are in hiding,"

I groaned.

"Seriously John, can't you get on with life without reading a paper? They are terribly boring," he said monotonously.

"I like to know what's going on," I said warily, rubbing my eyes.

"Then search what's going on,"

"I left my laptop in the other flat,"

"Go and get it,"

"I thought you said I couldn't go out?"

"Use mine,"

"Where is it?" my eyes brightened slightly.

"I have no idea,"

I gave up, and went back to my tea.

"I can't believe you're here," I said softly, instead. Every time reality hit me, I felt immense joy build up like a little bubble in my chest.

He grunted and shot off the couch, making a beeline to the violin, where it lay elegantly on the windowsill.

"You left it out of the case?" he sounded disapproving, as he gently picked it up.

"I left the flat after your funeral," I reminded him, "plus I didn't want to break it,"

"Hmmm,"

I heard him start plucking at the strings, his back to me. Staring out the window. Lost in his own world.

Plucking, plucking, plucking.

The strings being teased into a melody.

God I'd missed that sound so much.

Hearing it again made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Then he raised the bow, hovering it over the strings; finally started to play.

It was an uneasy, agitated rhythm that made me feel incredibly jumpy. It was fast and loud and went up and down the scales before you had time to register the notes.

"Can you play something less...Jittery?" I asked loudly, trying to be heard over the music.

The only answer I got was a complicated trebelo.

"Sherlock," I groaned.

Again no answer, though I swear the playing got louder and louder.

God I couldn't stand much more of that!

I resisted the urge to cover my ears, and thought of a way to distract him.

A thought struck me and I suddenly wanted to ask him something.

"Sherlock!" I yelled over the recent crescendo.

He finally halted, bow hovering over the strings. He was still staring out of the window but I knew he was waiting for me to continue.

"How did you do it?" I was breathless even though I'd only shouted him. Maybe it was the type of music.

"Do what?"

I closed my eyes to hold back my impatience. '_breathe'_ I told myself.

"How did you fake your death?" I said quietly.

He sighed, though I could hear the strain in his voice.

"Do I really need to explain? It's not that interesting,"

"I think it is, seeing as I took. Your. Pulse," I said through clenched teeth, "there was no pulse Sherlock, you were dead!"

"I obviously wasn't,"

"So how d' you do it?" I folded my arms and waited for his answer.

"Hmmm,"

That was all I got. I was so frustrated I felt like punching him again.

"Is that all I get?" I asked, voice slightly shaky from my restrained anger, "5 months of believing you dead and you won't even tell me how you survived?"

"Hmmm,"

"For god's sake!"

He chuckled then, clearly delighted by my frustration. This made me feel even worse.

"Sherlock. Stop it before I hit you," I warned him.

"Please do its very exhilarating,"

To my horror, he began to play again. Though it was slower this time, thank God. In fact it was quite calm and thoughtful.

If music could be thoughtful.

I sighed.

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Because it's boring!" he moaned.

"No. It's. Not!" I yelled, putting emphasis on my words, "I thought you were dead, which was obviously what you wanted, so you were clever enough to appear dead to everyone! And then I find out that you're alive! I want to know how you did it! So how _did_ you do it?"

He sighed, put down his violin, to my intense relief, and jumped back on the sofa.

"I showed you a clue before I jumped," he said warily, "I thought you might figure it out,"

I gaped at him disbelievingly.

"I thought that you were dead, how was I supposed to know you were dropping hints?" I seethe. His deftness at my irritation was infuriating.

"Well now you know I'm not, why not try and work it out?" he pressed his fingers together, and surveyed me, waiting.

"Umm," I thought back, but it was hard. Too many painful memories had attacked me since.

_I remembered getting out of the cab, my phone had rung. His voice had commanded me to stay where I was. My hand clenched tightly around the phone as his voice rang again._

_"Ok look up, I'm on the rooftop,"_

_The fear that had gripped me was like physical pain._

"John?!"

I blinked, looked up. Sherlock was close to me, and looked very pale, almost frightened.

"What?" I questioned, confused.

"You. You. Your eyes,"

_Ok, this was weird._

I blinked.

"What about them?"

"They were clouded then, dark. I thought you were... Sinking again. Are you ok?"

I didn't need to ask what he meant by sinking.

The memory _had_ been painful for me. After his suicide, I had closed off all those memories, shutting them in a vault at the back of mind to stop the pain. That had been the first time I'd willingly tried to remember anything.

But had the memory been so painful, that I'd been subconsciously falling into depression?

I swallowed.

"I'm fine,"

"What were you remembering?" he was reading me. I could tell. His brow was furrowed.

And it annoyed the hell out of me.

"Honestly? You should know by now," I said sceptically, eyes narrowing.

He sat back, expression clearing.

"Oh," he said softly.

"Hmm," I looked down to hide my embarrassment. Obviously, it still haunted me.

I suppose it didn't help that I had had a nightmare earlier.

"It was before... Umm...then by the way,"

His voice distracted me from my thoughts.

"What?" I looked up.

"It was before... Then- We were in the hospital," his voice was very subdued.

"Oh,"

I remembered slamming open the door, having just got his text. He had been sitting on the grey chair, facing the wall. Staring at the wall. He had been doing something. I couldn't quite remember what.

"Well? Do you remember?"

I shrugged, feeling the whole thing was completely pointless, but knowing that I wouldn't get an answer otherwise, "you were sitting on the floor, facing the wall?" I said, quizzical. He nodded.

"And?"

I raked my brains.

"That's it isn't it?"

"No,"

I tried to remember.

"You were doing something. No! Playing with something,"

"Good, what was it?"

It suddenly came to me.

"A bouncy ball!"

"Good!"

He looked pleased. But it was still unclear to me. What did a bouncy ball have to do with anything?

"What does a bouncy ball have to do with anything," I asked, echoing my thoughts.

He groaned in response.

"Oh John, I forgot how very simple you are,"

I bristled. He laughed.

"Which makes it so much more real that you're here," he finished.

I remained silent.

"A bouncy ball, John, can be used to mask a pulse. I simply put it up my armpit, hence, no pulse in that arm,"

I stared at him. I was suddenly angry. Angry that I had fell for such a stupid trick.

"B*******," I said decisively.

He snorted.

"You're a doctor John, I knew that the first thing you'd do was check my pulse. I had to make you believe I was dead, so I masked the pulse,"

I glared at his placid expression.

"How about the blood?"

"Fake,"

"The body, the grave, the funeral," I reeled off.

"Me acting, false grave, Moriarty's funeral," he reeled off just as quickly, sounding satisfied.

I sank back into my chair, head spinning.

"But I saw you jump, I saw you hit the ground,"

"Correction, you saw me jump, but a building masked your view of the ground. As you went to have a closer look, a biker crashed into you. You were dizzy and unsure. You could miss smaller signs that I was alive, breathing for example,"

"Wait! Slow down! How the hell did you know I got hit by a biker?"

"I umm... I arranged it," he looked down.

I gaped at him, disbelieving.

"What?" I asked slowly.

He looked pleased with himself, but all I wanted to do was hit him again.

He sighed warily.

"Please, John, you've already called me a b****** enough times,"

I glared at him.

"How did you survive the jump?" I asked.

"Padding,"

I blinked.

"What?"

"Lots of padding,"

I groaned. He obviously wanted to keep me in the dark. If fact, I thought he enjoyed the fact that he'd outsmarted everyone, and didn't want to give it up easily.

So I decided to give up while I was ahead, and leave him to it.

_A/n: how was it? Was it ok? Reviews are very important to me- please review! Please, please please, please, please review! I hope you enjoyed it! _


	5. Chapter 5 Telling Lestrade

Chapter 5- telling Lestrade

_A/n: oh my goodness, I must apologise for my spelling mistakes on the last chapter! Upon uploading, I forgot to do a last minute spell check! Please forgive me! _

_Anyway beside from that, I decided to introduce everyone's favourite detective inspector! I know Mycroft said for them not to tell anyone about Sherlock being alive, but when does Sherlock ever listen to his big brother?_

_Please enjoy and review! Especially review! I love getting reviews! Xxx_

JW

"So, "I said, "you hungry?"

Sherlock let out a long breath.

"No,"

"I'll do you some toast anyway," I got up and headed for the kitchen, scouring the lab-like surfaces for the bread. There were hundreds of experiments set out on the table, most of them probably no good after being abandoned for months. Most of them were probably incredibly un-hygienic.

"I won't eat, I'm busy,"

"Doing what? Sitting?" I said with a sarcastic chuckle.

"No. Thinking,"

I ignored him, and finally found a loaf.

Then I realised that it was 5 months out of date. I tossed it into the bin with a groan.

"We need to go shopping," I said decisively.

"We can't go out,"

"But we need to shop! We'll starve otherwise!" I said warily.

"Shopping's boring; I'll get Mycroft to do it,"

"Umm ok, you do that,"

"I can't I'm busy,"

"Doing what?!" I said, rapidly losing my patience and flinging my hands in the air.

"Thinking,"

"Right, thinking," I ground my teeth and forced myself to calm down.

"You send him a text," he said, holding out his phone.

I decided to play him at his own game. I crossed my arms.

"I can't I'm busy,"

His eyes shot open, he studied me carefully.

"I don't understand, you're not doing anything,"

"Yes I am," I sat down in the arm chair, "I'm thinking,"

"You don't need to think. I however, do,"

"I need to think,"

"No you don't, you need to send a text," his arm was still outstretched, phone out.

I blew out a long noisy breath.

"You know, you could just send it yourself, save the hassle," I seethe, snatching it out of his palm.

I opened up a message to Mycroft.

"What shall I say?" I sighed warily.

He glanced at me sideways then began to talk.

"We are out of food, please restock,"

I looked at him sceptically.

"That's it?"

"What else can I say?" he said absently, closing his eyes.

"Well he is your brother, you know best," I sighed, sending him the text, "now we wait,"

"No rush," he muttered, barely listening.

"What do we do now then?" I ask, "Just stay here?"

"Seems about right,"

"But you'll get bored,"

"I _am_ bored,"

"Shall we-"

"No,"

"Shall we-"

"No,"

I clucked furiously.

"Shall we get a small case?"

He paused for a fraction of a second.

"No,"

"Why not?"

"We are in hiding John, getting a small case requires coming out of hiding," he said slowly, as if explaining something to a small child. I gritted my teeth.

"You need one,"

"No I don't,"

"You're bored,"

"Yes,"

"So get one!"

"No,"

I groaned and buried my head in my hands.

"You're angry," he mused.

"Yes I am, just stop picking me apart because you have nothing else to do!" I snapped.

The left corner of his mouth twitched. My fury flared.

"Oh so now you find me funny?"

"No I find your reaction funny, I missed it,"

"I didn't think you found anything funny," I snapped, still angry. He said nothing but continued to watch me.

"Oh for God's sake! Stop it!" I got up and started pacing. If anything, just to stop watching him read me.

Yet he was still watching me.

Then, suddenly…

"Can you talk please?"

I froze in my tracks, gaped at him, sure I'd miss heard.

"What?"

"Talk, John, talk! I've gone 5 months in silence I don't want it anymore,"

I still gaped.

"You want me to talk?"

"No, John, I just asked you to annoy you," he snapped sarcastically. His blue-grey eyes flashed.

I held my hands up in mock surrender.

"Sorry, but you usually tell me to shut up rather than talk,"

"Not now I'm not," he lay down on the sofa.

There was an awkward silence.

"What shall I talk about?" I asked.

"Anything, everything," he waved his hand lethargically at me.

"Ok..." I sat back in my chair; a plan had formed in my mind.

_Could it work? It may. I had to say the right things though._

I leaned back with a sigh, acting casual, "have you told Lestrade yet?"

A sideways glance. A raised eyebrow.

"No,"

"Are you going too?"

Pause.

"Maybe,"

"You did just commit suicide for him,"

"Did I?"

"Yes, you said it was me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, didn't you?"

"Oh," he pressed his fingers together, "I suppose,"

I suddenly realised what he was thinking, and a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. He really cared, despite himself.

"You know, he didn't really believe you were a fake," I sighed.

He glanced at me.

"Really?"

"No, he knew you too well to believe that idiot Donovan. He told me after your funeral,"

"It may have been just to console you," he responded blandly, though he looked slightly surprised. And happy too, I thought. His eyes had a new light to them.

I smiled at his emotion, "so he would be happy if you were alive," I finished.

"I suppose so," he mused, his fingers touching his lips.

"So- Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

I made a noise of impatience.

"That you're alive,"

"Hmmm,"

I stared at him.

"So are you?"

"We'll have to plan it out, we can't be too conspicuous or the media will get suspicious," he was talking at top speed tapping his fingers on the side of the chair.

I grinned when I realised that he was actually considering it. I had won this round! I knew that Lestrade would want him to solve some cases.

"Shall I text him?" I asked simply. He glanced at me.

"Yes use my phone, the number is different, just sign it with your initials at the bottom,"

I opened up a text to Lestrade:

Can you meet me outside my old flat?

JW

"Sent it," I told him. There's a light in his eyes that tell me he's happy. The phone buzzes a reply:

On my way, haven't seen you for a while, how you keeping?

GL

I sighed, time for awkward questions.

So I backed out.

Will talk when you get there

JW

There, that didn't sound too bad. I tried to study it from his angle. No, I definitely didn't give anything away.

I put the phone down. It sat innocently on the table.

And then it buzzes again. I leant over and glanced at the screen:

MYCROFT

Shopping has been done; car will be outside to restock.

"Oh! Mycroft is here," I told him, surprised.

Right on cue the doorbell rang. I headed downstairs and helped bring the bags up. It was just necessities like bread, milk, cheese, butter, microwave dinners, and, to my delight, a newspaper. I thanked the man heartily and unpacked. Sherlock seemed to find my joy amusing when I brandished the paper at him.

"Lestrade texted you just," he said with a lop-sided grin, holding out the phone. I glanced at the screen.

I'm just down the street now

GL

I headed downstairs quickly, pulling open the door. In the near distance, I saw Lestrade's bobbing silhouette. He raised a hand when he saw me waiting.

"Hi, thanks for coming," I said, shaking his hand.

"Long time no see, how've you been keeping?"

I shrugged. And gestured to the door.

"Do you want to come in? There's something you need to see..." I trailed off and looked down.

"Of course mate," he said with a sympathetic smile. A twinge of old annoyance hits me. After Sherlock's death, I had gotten more sympathetic smiles than I care to remember. I'd hated it. Hated how they'd all pitied me. It was partly the reason why I'd cut myself off from everyone.

"What is it anyway?" Lestrade asked curiously. I just shrugged again.

Lestrade clapped me on the back, and followed me back up the stairs.

Sherlock and I had planned it out. He was in his bedroom waiting for a signal. I was going to lead him into the flat, then excuse myself to the bathroom, where I was going to stay until Sherlock sorted it out. Pretty childish, I know, but I knew how nasty it was to have a surprise like that and didn't want to be involved. If I could help it.

"I've. I've only been here for an hour, the room is exactly how we...left it,"

I gestured for him to sit down then said.

"Do you mind? I just need the loo," I pretended to wipe my eyes. He realised that I needed privacy.

"Oh, yes, go ahead," he waved me away and I headed quickly to the bathroom. I slammed the door shut (that was our cue) and stood with my ear to it, waiting.

Just because I didn't want to be part of it didn't mean I didn't want to hear what was going on.

"Hello Lestrade," I heard Sherlock say, voice husky.

There was silence; I pressed my ear harder to the wood.

Noise suddenly deafened me, like a massive explosion. I jumped so badly, I made the door shudder in its frame. Then suddenly I realised what it was.

Lestrade was shouting. Letting off a volley of different swear words that seemed to stream into one another.

"YOU BLOODY B*********! YOU BLOODY LEFT ME TO NEARLY GET BLOODY FIRED YOU SELFISH F******** B*********! YOU BLOODY JUMPED OFF A BLOODY BUILDING!-," He started yelling.

I heard a thump and a smash and suddenly it went quiet.

Feeling shaky, I let myself into the room, somewhat guilty at leaving Lestrade to cope on his own with Sherlock's sudden appearance.

Sherlock was supporting a bloody nose, and had a tissue pressed on it. It wasn't as bad as my punch, but I felt some satisfaction at seeing it. He deserved it.

Lestrade was staring numbly at him, his usually perfect salt and pepper hair ruffled. He spun around to glare at me, eyes wide and furious.

"You were part of this too?" he snapped, jaw set. His hands were curled into fists.

"No, I only found out this morning," I said, slightly shakily, "he dragged me to Lauriston Gardens and jumped out of nowhere,"

"I hope you gave the b******* a hard time," he growled.

"Oh believe me, he did," Sherlock removed the tissue, "nearly broke my nose. Then he was crying. Kept calling me a b****** too,"

"You are a b*******," said Lestrade, "you nearly lost me my job, jumped off a building and left John devastated, and I was feeling it too by the way, then you just show up? How the hell did you do it?"

Upon hearing of my devastation, he closed his eyes again.

"I jumped to stop a bullet from killing you and John,"

"And Mrs Hudson," I added.

"Yes and her," Sherlock began to pace.

Lestrade just stared.

"So you're telling me a guy with a gun was gonna kill me if you didn't kill yourself first?" he scoffed.

"Yes. Moriarty has set instructions. The only way to call them off was to jump,"

"So how the hell did you survive?"

"I planned," he said the same words he had said to me.

Lestrade sank weakly into a chair.

"Jesus Christ," he gasped.

"That's what I said," I sighed.

Lestrade rubbed his face with his hand.

"We've really been feeling it without you Sherlock, half the cases we can't solve, even Donovan admitted we needed you,"

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaimed, "Trust her!"

"I am actually helpless without you," Lestrade sighed warily, "you b******,"

Sherlock made a noise of indignation.

"Doesn't anyone realise that I just died for you?" he said, "stop calling me that!"

"You didn't die, and you didn't tell anyone! If you had, it would've been easier," Lestrade retorts immediately.

He groaned.

"No, no, no," he sighed, "how could I tell you? If you knew I was alive and somehow let slip, the rifles would have been back on you in a second! Remember that the only way you survived was because I jumped off the building. My death was the code to call of those rifles! So everyone had to believe I was dead!"

"So you didn't trust us?" I asked quietly. I didn't know why, but I found this far more hurtful that I should have. His eyes found mine, they flickered with pain, then went blank.

"It wasn't about trust, it was about keeping you alive," he said.

"So what's different now? Why suddenly tell us?" asked Lestrade.

"Mycroft has managed to bring in the gun men, and keep them in prison. That's what I've been doing these last 5 months. Hunting them down. So you are no longer in danger,"

"Oh that's good to know," Lestrade said, jaw set.

There was a terrible silence. An awkward one. I cleared my throat.

"Well Sherlock would like a case," I said quickly. I saw Lestrade's eyes light up the same time Sherlock's head snapped up.

"No, I don't,"

"Yes he does," I contradicted immediately.

"I can't," he hissed.

"No, no, no! Wait! It can be undercover," Lestrade said eagerly, "I can send you all the information, you can solve it here! You won't have to go anywhere! I won't tell anyone that you're alive!"

Sherlock pursed his lips. I knew how desperately he wanted a case. And I wanted him to get a case before he got too bored.

"Please Sherlock I need you to do this, you're my consultant detective!" Lestrade begged.

He groaned.

"Fine, fine, I'll do it," Sherlock said, whilst he shot me a look that clearly said, 'I'll deal with you later.' He'd obviously realised what my plan was.

I grinned.

"Fantastic! I will email you in the morning," grinning widely Lestrade clapped Sherlock on the back.

He was still a little pale, but otherwise, he looked overjoyed.

"You're still an asshole by the way," he reminded him sternly, " but I am glad you're back," he finished.

I followed him out the house and said goodbye. He promised to email him all the details, even small ones, so that Sherlock could solve them. He seemed incredibly pleased as well as a bit miffed that Sherlock was alive, but he would get over it.

I went upstairs and finally made myself and Sherlock a long overdue sandwich.

"He's happy. Really happy," I said sitting down and glancing at him. He was eating, which was a good sign. He acknowledged my words.

"You made me tell him so that I would get a case didn't you?" he said with a snort.

I grinned and shrugged.

"There has been a lot of news about them recently. About how they are losing their touch. How London isn't safe. How half their cases are going un-solved. Lestrade must be pretty stressed. Especially now he's realised just how much you helped them before,"

The corner if his mouth twitched.

_Gotcha…_

"So you decided to help them? Make me reveal myself so he was happy?" he scoffed.

"Him and you,"

"What?"

"You're happier now too,"

"Am I?"

"Yes,"

"Hmm,"

He was in his prayer position again, a pensive expression all over his face.

I glanced at the clock, and was surprised to find it was 9.30pm. I didn't feel tired at all as I'd only got up 4 hours ago. Though I bet Sherlock was, seeing as he hadn't slept at all last night (or morning actually).

"Are you tired?"

"Not really, why?"

"It's quite late,"

"Yes,"

"But you're not tired,"

"No,"

Eventually though, he seemed to resign to his own bodily needs and headed off to his bed. In the shadows I sat in my favourite chair, feeling as if our roles had been reversed, and I was the sleepless one, until about 1.30 when I finally drifted off right there in the chair, and slept until the morning.

_A/n: I feel I need to apologise again for the length of this chapter. I hope it wasn't too boring for you! Please, please, please review! Let me know what you think! Is it worth continuing? _


	6. Chapter 6 New Cases

Chapter 6- New Cases

_A/n: thank you, thank you, thank you for all your lovely reviews and to everyone who started following this story! I forgot to thank you earlier! I still can't believe the support and encouragement I am getting from you! _

_For those of you who didn't review or follow, I really hope you are enjoying it and would love to hear what you think of it so far! So please review me! I honestly don't bite! I would love to find out what you all think! _

_Anyway, on we go! I'm not too proud of this one but I hope you enjoy it!_

_Please read, __enjoy__ and __**review**__! Xxx _

JW

Friday 18th Nov

The sound of Sherlock crashing around the flat woke me from my rather tetchy sleep. With a small groan, I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes.

I realised that I was still in my chair, having dropped off in it the night before.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, rather irritated.

"Oh! You're awake!" was all I got in response. He looked absolutely manic, curly hair a complete mess, eyes glinting. The room was a complete tip. Chairs had been upturned, the old newspaper had been ripped apart, its fragments scattered like confetti across the floor, he was just standing in the middle of it, messing with the handle of some desecrated draw.

So I tried again.

"What are you doing?" I repeated.

"Waiting,"

His response completely threw me off guard.

"What?"

He turned.

"Waiting,"

"Waiting for what?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"Waiting for Lestrade to email me, he said he would. He promised he would," his voice was animated.

I sighed.

"He will, just, calm down,"

He waved the laptop at me, ignoring my words.

"I found it," he said with a grin.

"I can see that," I said in an undertone.

He turned on his laptop and set his email up. Almost immediately, the email came through.

"Ah!" he cried in delight, opening it up.

"Hmm Bob Gregory, aged 35, post mortem shows no real cause of death, except a failed heart. Small puncture in the arm. Death by Injection then?

Oh no, no sign of drug use in blood stream. At all it seems. Put there to confuse us..." he rubbed his chin.

I got up and peered over his shoulder. The picture showed us a body lying on the floor in an office. Then another one after the post mortem. His hair was grey. I leaned in.

"How is he 35? Look at his hair!"

"I know, but that's not all, look at his trouser legs and the belt. Oh! Look at his hand,"

I scanned these quickly. I couldn't see anything, but no doubt he could.

"What about them,"

"Really?" he sighed exasperated, before launching into it.

"The trousers are slightly too big for him, you can tell that the hem has been dragged on the floor whilst walking, they're scuffed, frayed and dirty. There's mud on them, so somewhere muddy. High levels because of the tiny splash marks. Could be caused by puddles, hmmm, walking in puddles? You can also tell that he's only worn them once. Apart from the hem, they are pristine, not yet washed, the colour's new. So how did the hem get so scuffed? Well, perhaps he was dragged? Or running? Running's more probable; otherwise there wouldn't be splash marks. He's wearing a belt to keep them up at the waist. It's buckled tightly and there are welts in his skin left from it. The belt is old. Slightly rusted. The holes are stretched and frayed. Used on different settings then. Not just one. It could be because he was losing weight? But no, why would he buy brand new jeans that were too big for him? He would know, he would take them back. He's proud, so he wouldn't wear them...

And his hand? Yes, married but recently broken up, the tan line shows where it used to be, so he was on holiday recently too. He broke up after his holiday otherwise there wouldn't be a line. His fingernails are dirty, could be because of him scrambling in the dirt.

So we know he was running, but where? How come he was found in the office? What was he running from?"

He scrolled down, oblivious to my dropped jaw.

_Jesus I'd forgotten how good he was._

Various pictures of the office came up. He leaned in close.

"Tacky pictures, probably Anderson," he muttered furiously.

"Windows locked, door wide open. Had he just come in before collapsing? Is it his office? No, it can't possibly be, there are family photos, he hasn't got a family. So who's office?"

He scrolled up to the body picture. He was sprawled across, by the desk. His white shirt crinkled...

White shirt...

"Sherlock," I muttered slowly, "look at this..."

I reached over and zoomed in on the picture of after they removed his coat.

"The sleeve. The sleeve has blood on it,"

He leaned in and squinted at the screen.

"You're right, a drop of blood. Caused by the injection! It's new..."

He scrolled down at the other pictures. His wallet, ID, car keys.

Suddenly, a dreamy expression passed over his face.

"Oh," he whispered, "Oh that's clever..."

"What? What?" I stared at him. His triumphant smile.

"Oh John don't you see? This guy. He wasn't supposed to be the victim. The real victim gave his clothes to another guy. A guy who was already dying... The injection? Given to this man by a nurse a few hours before. A painkiller injected straight into the blood stream but short term, so no trace was detected. The man knew he was dying. He led the killers here in the man's clothes to keep the real victim alive. Love. He died before they got to him and they, realising he was not the one they wanted, they ran off... This man died truly of heart failure, perhaps from a disease he got from the holiday. This man is not Bob Gregory,"

"But why wouldn't they know that? Why do they think he's called Bob Gregory?" I asked, baffled.

"The clothes John, the clothes! They would have brought up Bobs DNA!"

"But they checked his blood,"

"They are twins, perfect sets of DNA, that and the DNA on the clothes. It's bound to convince them that this is Bob Gregory. Remember also that these were Bob's jeans. The wallet was planted on his twin to make sure no questioned whether this was Bob!"

"How did you get that though?"

"The too big clothes! Easy really,"

"But how the hell-"

"Because it seems that Bob Gregory has a twin. This man. Bob Gregory is the only family this man had. He would have done anything to keep him alive. He knew he was dying so he sacrificed himself, leaving Bob to go into hiding, with everyone believing he's dead. The clothes? It seems his twin got dressed in his clothes as some sort of decoy. Bob Gregory is alive and in hiding, saved by his twin brother. For once we have a clever victim!"

I rubbed my eyes, beyond understanding how he got all that from a few pictures.

"How about the killers?"

"Ran away, thought they had done what they came for. If not, searching for the real Bob Gregory right now,"

I nodded placidly, deciding not to ask more questions.

"Are you going to email Lestrade?"

"Already on it,"

He opened a reply and typed at top speed. Then he made sure his address was blocked so that the call was un-traceable. He clicked send, the sat back, smiling broadly.

I actually couldn't believe that he had solved the case in under an hour, he must have been so desperate for a case.

"I love cases," he said, unnecessarily.

"I know," I was smiling too, because for once, I had won the argument. He seemed to realise it too.

"It doesn't mean you were right, telling Lestrade," he said irritably. I waved him away.

"Yeah sure,"

The phone rang. A look from him told me I was going to have to answer it. I sighed, reached over and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Jesus Christ, how the hell did he do it so quickly?" it was Lestrade. I chuckled.

"Ask him," I handed him the phone. He started talking into it immediately.

"The clothes Lestrade," he said impatiently. "You can tell they were too big for him. Why wear them if they were too big other than for a ploy?"

He paused listening.

"Yes, easy... Ok," he hung up.

I smirked at his expression.

"And now we wait," Sherlock said enthusiastically. He sprung up from the chair and starts pacing, like he always does when his mind is racing at 1000 miles an hour.

"Is he sending you a new one?"

"Of course!" he scoffed.

I smiled at him again.

"You know, I miss Mrs Hudson," I said ambling into the kitchen to fetch a beer. "Perhaps we should-"

But I never managed to finish my sentence. A loud ping came from his computer and his head shot up, as he ran to it.

"Another case from Lestrade," he said, opening the email. I leant over his shoulder and looked at the pictures. Not as many this time, but more writing.

"Who are they?" I asked.

"They can't seem to match the girl, the boy is Henry Right," he responded. Suddenly he was muttering. The way he always did when he was so involved in a case.

"Affair with each other, both married. One married happily. Why have affairs then? Comfort? Girls dress fancy but old, only good one she has. Small stain on the front. Man shot, but not fatally. The shirt is also fancy. Used to be wearing a tie but not anymore. They went somewhere fancy..." he lapsed into silence muttering too quietly for me to hear. Occasionally, he would shout out a random word, for example, _Heathrow_ and _button_. I was at a loss and consequently decided to leave him to it.

"John?"

I looked up suddenly, "what?"

"Didn't you hear me?"

"I stopped a while ago," I said wryly.

He sighed.

"What do you think?"

"About what?" I sighed.

He blinked.

"About the murder?"

I stared at him.

"You… Never ask me what I think," I said slowly, wondering whether I heard right.

"Well now I am," he beckoned me over. I got up and headed over to him.

"What do you think?"

"Umm," I peered at the picture then at the writing, "why? Do you know?"

"Of course, I just want to know if you can see it too,"

Warily I glanced at him.

"You want me to make a fool of myself don't you?" I sighed.

He blinked again.

"No, I want to see what you think,"

I scanned the picture.

"Well, you said they were having an affair with each other, so the killing wasn't random. They were picked off purposely, maybe an angry wife or husband?" I peered at him out of the corner of my eye. He nodded encouragingly. I cleared my throat. I zoomed into the wound.

"Clean gun shot," I remarked, "made by a Thirty-Two-"

"What?" he asked sharply. I looked at him.

"Clean gun sh-"

"No, no after then,"

"Made by a Thirty- Two?"

He shut his eyes.

"Thirty two, thirty two," he muttered. His eyes snapped open again.

"How did you know that?" he asked.

I blinked.

"Wait, you didn't get that?" I asked, hardly believing my ears.

"I'm hardly an expert on guns," he sniffed petulantly. I grinned, delighted.

"I'm an army doctor remember? I saw wounds like this on a regular basis. Small, has to be a thirty two, but that's only rough. Shot at point blank range," I gestured to the wound.

"Well done," he allowed reluctantly.

"Thanks," I grinned again.

"So..." he rubbed his chin, scrolled through the pictures.

And that's what he did for most of the rest of the day. He sat there silently, scrolling through the pictures. He didn't ask for my opinion again, for which I was grateful, because I was absolutely shattered. And I didn't even know why. I'd only just woken up.

I ended up sitting quietly in my armchair, reading my newspaper, and leaving him to it. I even managed to drop off at one point.

Not for very long though, because before I knew it, I was getting shaken awake by Sherlock.

"John, wake up, I solved the case,"

"Hmph… what?" I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.

"The case- I solved it,"

"Well done," I praised, knowing that's what he wanted to hear.

"It was a suicide,"

"It was- wait a minute- what?" I spluttered, suddenly interested.

"It was a suicide, not a murder- that's why Lestrade couldn't find any leads!"

How he got to this conclusion I don't know, but I didn't ask. He went back over to the table, sat down and emailed Lestrade with the solution. Then twisted around in the chair, fingers pressed together.

"John?" he asked.

I looked up.

"Yeah?"

"Are you angry with me?"

I sighed.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean are you angry with me? Still?"

I let out an exasperated breath.

"Well I'm not exactly pleased am I?"

"But I've said sorry," he sounded like a child getting told off. I felt myself soften without warning.

"I know," I said quietly, "I just don't think that a sorry makes up for leaving me depressed and alone for 5 months believing you were dead when you weren't," I rub my eyes. To be honest, I felt like I was a stuck record, explaining the same thing over and over again, "I also want to get my head around your trust issues," I felt slightly bruised by his lack of trust in me. He told Molly but not his best friend? He had even accused himself of being a fake, just to fool me.

He closed his eyes.

"I trust you John,"

"No you don't," I said simply, "otherwise you would have told me what you were planning,"

"I didn't have time," he said desperately.

"Oh you had time. You left me alone quite a lot that night before the jump if I remember right," I said bitterly. I couldn't help it.

He fell silent. I got up.

"Just don't make excuses Sherlock. I know you don't trust me," I sighed, heading to the kitchen by means of escape.

_A/n: you may have realised by now that I am rather terrible at making up cases. The reason for that is because this is only a minor case. There is a big one coming up, which (hopefully) should be better. So I apologise, but I hope you enjoyed it! Please review! Please, please, please review! Your opinions make all the difference to me! Constructive criticism is very welcome! X_


	7. Chapter 7 Company

Chapter 7- Company

_A/n: I want to make a special mention to DoctorShan876! I can't believe my story and myself were the only ones on your favourite list! I feel so honoured! Thank you so, so much!_

_I also think I must apologise for the last chapter. It wasn't the best chapter. I'm really sorry if it disappointed you all!_

_Anyway, this was one of my favourite chapters to write! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! _

_Again, please enjoy and review! Xxx _

SH

I didn't sleep much that night. Not that I do anyway, but this was a time when I wanted to. I couldn't get John's defeated expression out of my head, which is something that never happened. It wouldn't delete. No matter how hard I tried.

Strange really.

His words had shocked me. How could he think I didn't trust him?

Was that the way I came across?

I had always, _always _trusted John.

Finally giving up on sleep, I made a coffee, a strong one, knowing that if I didn't have coffee, I would probably turn to something stronger and I didn't want to wake John. Plus he would be furious with me.

Plus I didn't really feel like smoking.

I took a sip even though it burnt my tongue. It was good the burning. A distraction for me.

I needed to find a way to show John how much I trusted him.

But how was I supposed to understand how? I couldn't comfort. I didn't understand how. I was a high functioning sociopath.

Most of the time.

Suddenly the door creaked open. My head snapped up.

It was John.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" He mumbled, rubbing his eyes. I stood up, finding myself strangely worried.

"Nothing. I can't sleep," I said.

He gazed blearily at me.

"You've got coffee," he muttered.

I glanced at my cup.

"Yes,"

He sat down.

"What are you doing?" I asked, rather more sharply than I expected.

"Giving you some... Company," he mumbled through a huge yawn. I shook my head gently.

"You're tired, get some sleep,"

"You need company," his voice was quiet, thick with sleep.

"I'm..." I paused. Telling him to go away wasn't good, I decided. He would be more hurt. Plus I found I liked him there after months of silence.

"Do you want coffee?" I asked suddenly, the words tasting strange on my tongue, like a foreign language. I didn't usually say stuff like that. It surprised me.

He stared at me through sleep crusted eyes, mouth slightly open.

"What?" he mumbled.

"Do you want coffee?"

"You never make coffee for me," he mumbled with a yawn.

"Well I am now,"

I got up awkwardly, and made a coffee for John. He didn't have sugar I remembered. I handed him the cup. He took it mutely, watching me with a guarded expression he always had when he was contemplating. He blew on it. I sipped mine.

"You're close to a danger night aren't you?" he muttered through another yawn. I narrowed my eyes.

"No,"

"Why are you having coffee in the middle of the night then?"

"I couldn't sleep,"

"Were you trying to?"

"Yes,"

He sighed quietly.

"You're not going to find cigarettes anywhere,"

"I don't want a cigarette," I snapped, furiously. He blinked at me placidly.

"You don't usually have coffee," he mumbled.

"I felt like it,"

He was right of course, but I wouldn't let him know that. I was close to a 'danger night' as he called it. Not that I was going to admit it. Still, I realised that I felt rather happy that he had decided to keep me company.

I smiled tightly.

"Thank you anyway John," I said quietly.

I was unnerving him. His eyes told me that. My uncharacteristic behaviour.

He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes again.

"It's ok," he mumbled.

I sighed and stared into the dregs of my coffee. The silence was almost deafening.

"I do trust you John, I always have. I just wanted to keep you safe,"

He looked at me again, expression blank.

"Is that what's keeping you up Sherlock?" he whispered.

I looked studiously at the floor, not wanting to reveal much.

I felt a light touch on my shoulders and looked up. It was John.

"Sherlock," he sighed, "if I was very angry with you, do you think I would be here now, keeping you company?"

"I-I-I," was all I managed.

He laughed quietly.

"Have I left you silent for once?"

I scowled at him.

"You are my best friend," he repeated, "I was so alone before you. Jesus," he grimaced, "that sounds cheesy,"

My lips twitched.

"So you're not angry?"

"No, Sherlock," he sighed, "you may be a git sometimes but I'm not angry- not anymore,"

I didn't know I was relieved until I felt the weight get lifted off my shoulders. Before I could stop myself, I sighed. John's jaw dropped.

"You really were worried about that weren't you?"

I squinted at him in answer.

"Jesus Sherlock what happened to you when I was away?" he said with a soft chuckle, "you seem so much more... Sensitive,"

I snorted and shrugged.

"I just realised that you were right," I said honestly, forcing the words through my unusually stiff mouth, "friends do count. I missed you and now you're back I want to make sure it stays that way," I sighed, "I don't want to be alone anymore, and I don't want you to be alone anymore,"

It was painful to admit that to him. But it was nice to see the sparkle in his eyes after I said it. He clapped my shoulder.

"I missed you too," he said with a smile.

Like I said. A sociopath, but only most of the time.

_A/n: you know why I loved this one so much? Because I thought it was a really nice John- Sherlock moment. But what did you think? Was it ok? Please, please review me!_

_I hope you enjoyed it! I hope this one didn't disappoint you!_


	8. Chapter 8 Hyper

Chapter 8- Hyper

_A/n: and back to John's POV again! The reason why I use John more than Sherlock is mainly because Sherlock is a very shadowy, mysterious character, and I want to keep him that way :D_

_This is quite a short one, not as short as the last but still fairly short, but I hope you enjoy it all the same! Because of this, I am probably going to put chapter 9 up today too, to keep you all busy!_

_Anyway, please read, enjoy and review! I really love knowing what you all think! I know I keep saying it, but it really is true! I literally keep my email up all day and night in the hope of getting reviews! I love them so much! And the last two chapters didn't get any so I'm wondering if they were really bad! Were they bad? Please tell me! Please review!_

JW

After Sherlock's confession, the room seemed to me rather awkward. I was mainly too preoccupied to speak much, realising, finally, that it was because of how uncharacteristic Sherlock was last night. That and probably lack of sleep too.

He on the other hand, was back to normal.

If you count being hyper on caffeine as normal, which in some cases it was.

He was bored and therefore rude, arrogant, restless and stubborn. As well as hyper. But this made me feel rather relieved knowing I had Sherlock back and not the sentimental replacement I'd had last night. Seeing him hyper was better than sentimental. He was the one who always snarled at sentiment.

That was until he smashed my favourite mug.

"That's it!" I roared, finally at the end of my tether after hours of watching him whirl like a tornado around the flat. I gripped his shoulders and forced him down onto the sofa.

He seemed surprised at my outburst. His eyes, glinting manically, widened.

"What?" he moaned his hands clenching and unclenching on the arm.

"You broke my mug!" I snapped.

"It was a good target," he said with a ridiculous giggle.

_Jesus he was hyper._

He tried to get up but I pushed him down again, thrilled to be stronger than him. But suddenly he reached over and pulled at my ears and with a yelp I let go. He laughed triumphantly and bounced over to the mantle- piece.

"Ok," I stood up and rubbed my temple with a sigh, "that is the last time you are having coffee,"

"Are you going to stop me?" he said his eyes glinting mischievously, curly hair ruffled and messy.

"If it means keeping me sane yes," I growled, "and you're paying for that mug!"

"Oh don't be such a girl," he scoffed, "it's a bloody mug! You can get another one,"

"That's not the point! You can't keep destroying things just because you're bored!"

"What shall I do then?" he scrutinised me with that manic glint, tearing his fingers through his hair.

"Calm down?" I suggested, receiving an icy glare. I checked his phone, and groaned.

"You do know you have 5 messages, don't you?" I asked warily. He shrugged and picked up his violin.

"Text messages. Can't be doing with boring concerns," he grumbled, plucking the strings airily, "most of them are stupid from stupid people,"

I raised my eyebrows.

"_Most_ of them are from Lestrade," I said, putting emphasis on the most. He cleared his throat, put the violin back down and snatched the phone from me. Flipping it around and squinting at the messages.

"It's another case," he said, with the air of someone commenting on the weather.

"Oh?" I sighed, internally blessing Lestrade to high Heaven for his distraction, "what is it?"

"He's coming over at 5 to tell us. Apparently it's more personal,"

"Brilliant," I didn't mean it sarcastically, but I couldn't help it. Now Lestrade was going to see first- hand Sherlock on a bad day. I really felt for him.

Meanwhile Sherlock had his violin back in his hands. The tune he played was gentle and soft, but gradually got faster. I knew then that he was composing. He turned around and stared out of the window, peering into the rain-swept street where the street lamps already blazed softly. He was thinking. I could tell.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked. He shrugged.

"A lot of things,"

"Like what?"

"Like whether or not to change my email address so my _dear _brother can't email me, like how to buy you another mug, like how to persuade Molly to let me in the morgue after hours- I've been trying to think of a way for ages,"

I let my mouth hang open.

"You cruel man," I said decisively.

He snorted.

"She's very useful when I seduce her," he said, "why not make use of it?"

"It's. Not. Nice," I said empathetically. He just gazed at me. He wasn't aware of doing anything wrong.

"Isn't it?" he asked mildly. I shook my head.

"Oh,"

I glanced at the clock. It was 2.30 so I didn't need to worry about Lestrade for some time yet. Perhaps I could get Sherlock to calm down before he came over.

There was a short silence, in which, I busied myself with picking up the shards of my favourite, and now thoroughly useless mug. At least he was thinking of buying me a new one. That counted for something.

"Molly's coming in a bit," said Sherlock conversationally, which made me pause.

"You are so cruel," I seethed, feeling terrible for Molly. She was getting seduced over and over again by a man she liked. A man who only used her to get what he wanted.

"It's making use," he said blankly, completely missing the point.

I sighed, looking over to the mirror hung above the mantle-piece. Reflected in it I saw the yellow spray painted smiley face, peppered with bullet holes, some made today.

Sometimes, I couldn't help wondering sometimes whose face he'd been visualising when he painted it, or whether he really was slightly sadistic for painting a _smiley_ face.

I shifted my gaze to the skull. It had been a long going fight between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock about where the skull should be placed. Whenever Mrs Hudson moved the skull, saying with distaste that it was too grotesque, Sherlock would always sneak in afterwards and retrieve it, putting it back in its place and insisting that it should stay there. On many occasions, I had seen Mrs Hudson quietly remove it at which point when Sherlock noticed, it would put him in a dark mood, saying how he was never allowed his private space. The skull would then return a few hours later, though whether by an exasperated and guilty Mrs Hudson or an infuriated Sherlock I never knew.

I knew that I should keep out of the skull business.

I also knew that I filled in for his skull sometimes as a 'friendly' face for him to look at.

I glared at it, silently blaming it for Sherlock's moods.

At least I could pretend it was its fault.

The doorbell went. Sherlock pointed to the door with his bow.

"That's Molly," he said. Knowing that I was expected to get the door, I went and let her in, with a terrible sinking feeling. I felt sorry for her, knowing what was coming.

"Oh! I didn't know you were- I thought Sherlock was still alone! Hi," she stuttered nervously. Bless her, she was as nervous as a mouse in Sherlock's presence. She wore a simple blue dress and white jumper, her wavy brown hair pulled to one side by grips. It hung down by her left shoulder. I was slightly surprised at her reaction. Though, I suppose seeing a person who almost disappeared off the face of the Earth for 5 months back where he started was a little surprising.

"Um hi," I said, watching her bite her lip, and deciding against commenting, "come on up,"

I led her up the steep stairs into the flat, where Sherlock stood waiting. To my intense surprise, tea was set for two on the table. Sherlock never made tea.

"Molly," he said, flashing a charming smile in her direction, "Why don't you sit down?"

He gestured to my chair; I realised that I wasn't invited to this little meeting, so I disappeared to my room.

_A/n: so, how was it? I really hope its ok! Sometimes I worry if it's really bad… A review or two would really be appreciated, especially after the last chapters had none…_

_Constructive criticism is, as always, really welcome! X _

_So please review!_

_I'm also going to take time now to thank all the lovely people who have reviewed me so far!_

_So thank you:_

_Dr. Who Nut_

_KGIB18_

_RoSIExOjAcOb_

_Brianna. T. Wedge_

_The guest: Nat_

_EtherealHope_

_TomParis7_

_The guest: Marye_

_sherlockfan22_

_Really, you guys have made all the difference!_

_Also, thank you to everyone who is following me so far! The list really is too big to name! I may name you lovely people in the next chapter!_


	9. Chapter 9 Intimacy

Chapter 9- Intimacy

_A/n: I just want to say thank you to SketchbookPianist and mvignal for reviewing yesterday and encouraging me to continue! It really means so much to me!_

_For everyone who didn't review or follow I really hope you are enjoying it so far! _

_This chapter is not Sherlolly at all in case anyone is wondering, so I'm sorry if I've just disappointed some of you. _

_Anyway, please read, enjoy and review! Xxx _

SH

I handed her the tea with a smile. I saw a blush creep into her cheeks as she took it. Her hands trembled with nerves.

She had been working for 3 hours I observed, the last one being rather horrible. She had then settled for a coffee and had been chatted up by a man on the opposite side of the table from her. The watch she wore was new but she didn't like it- it had been a present from her mom last Christmas. She'd only worn it because her favourite had broken. She'd taken it to the watch repairs this morning. Overall, her day had been terrible.

I needed to change that in order to get what I want.

"You look sad, are you ok?" I asked conversationally. She looked up from her tea, surprised.

"Oh! Yes, umm I'm umm I'm fine. Thanks," her lips trembled, "why did you call me here?"

"Oh I just wanted to talk, I missed you," I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Chin on hands. I was slightly surprised to find that this was slightly true. I had missed talking to her.

"Oh," she gave a breezy laugh, "I thought you'd just call me just to try and get something out of me,"

I straightened up, "I don't do that,"

"Yes you do, all the time," she tried to smile, but it flickered like a light going out.

I sighed, unintentionally feeling bad for her.

"You really don't think you mean anything to me do you?" I said softly. Something passed her eyes, an expression. Before I could figure it out it was gone. I decided she needed more persuading.

"Molly, do you think I would have spoken to you about my death if you didn't mean anything? I didn't even tell John,"

"You always flirt with me to get what you want," she said, "you needed me so you flirted,"

Just because she said that, I decided that I was not going to ask for morgue access. I was simply going to 'talk'.

Though that wasn't my strongest point.

I didn't want to prove her right. Because that meant that I was wrong.

"So, what did you do today?" I asked calmly, as if the last conversation had never happened.

She sighed, "Really? You should know shouldn't you? You can read people,"

"Yes but then I can't ask you can I? Plus people usually hate it when I read them,"

"I don't hate it," she burst out. I met her brown eyes and she blushed furiously, "I mean, I think it's- it's- umm- oh well," she looked down, "it doesn't matter,"

"No," I whispered, "no tell me,"

A sudden idea came to me that may help persuade her. I reached out hesitantly, stroked her brown hair. It was curiously soft. Her eyes followed my hand, lips slightly parted, "Please?" I finished.

She closed her eyes.

"I was going to say. I- I like it when you read me. It's amazing,"

My lips twitched. I couldn't help myself, "really?"

She nodded, cheeks bright red.

"Thank you," I said with a soft grin. I felt flattered, something which didn't happen. I forced the emotion back quickly.

"Can you umm... read me please?" she asked, looking slightly braver now. I grinned and scanned her up and down and told her everything I knew. At the end of it her mouth hung open and I had to suppress a grin. I didn't get that reaction often. And it was usually John who gave it me.

"Wow," she said with an awkward laugh, "that's amazing," she sipped her tea with trembling fingers. I sipped mine quietly.

"So you did know that I had a bad day," she sighed. I nodded.

"I don't know why though, you didn't tell me," I stared into her eyes, watched her pupils dilate when she stared back. It was curious to see the effect I had on her.

She broke eye contact.

"The last post mortem I did, it was a guy I knew- he was my friend in college…" she buried her head in her hands, "it just- it made me really sad,"

"I'm sorry,"

She looked like she wanted to say something more, but was battling with herself. I could see the un-sureness in her face, the tremor in her lower lip. In any case, she decided to ignore me for about half an hour before she spoke again.

"Can I-umm-," she blushed, "can I touch your hair?" her face was burning, I could tell that she felt stupid.

But I also saw her dilated pupils.

So I leaned forward as an indication that she could, and watched her face.

She placed her hand on my head lightly; her fingers wove through my curls delicately. She just left it there for a while. I saw the look in her face. Pure desire. It made me feel odd.

Then she pulled through them, making them bounce. I hadn't expected it. I startled, causing her to hesitate. But I didn't pull away. In fact, I found myself rather enjoying the experience. So to prompt her to do more, I touched her hair again. I twirled it around my fingers, feeling it slide. I heard her breathe catch in her throat, so I twirled it some more. Her fingers began pulling at my curls again. My gaze flicked to her eyes. She was so close. I hadn't noticed. She was a breath away from me.

What came next was completely and utterly unexpected.

She leaned forward.

And she kissed me.

I jumped violently and sat bolt upright, withdrawing my hand from her hair. She sat up too, face red and burning.

"Why did you do that?" I exclaimed, unnerved.

She went from unsure to ashamed.

"I'm sorry- I- I thought- umm-" she trailed off, looking down. I stood up sharply.

"I think it's time to leave," I said rather stiffly, forcing a smile.

"Yes," her voice wavered and she fled.

I stared at the door, shaken. I should have seen it coming but I didn't.

It took me a while to realise that my breathing was ragged. I checked it quickly, forcing it to slow down. It was just shock. I was just unnerved. It was natural.

I straightened my clothes and put the tea away.

"What happened?" it was John. I turned to him with a blank expression pasted on my face. I had to keep my unease hidden.

"We talked and she left, is there a problem?" I asked, rather too sharply.

He pulled a face.

"Don't lie to me Sherlock; I know when you're lying,"

"Do you?" I sneered.

"Yes," he stood straight like a soldier ready for a battle. He was waiting for a fight.

I remembered then my promise to myself that I was going to have to make sure that John knew I trusted him. I had to tell him the truth.

Plus I'd missed him too much to argue.

I sighed.

"She kissed me," I said slowly, an edge to my voice.

His face dropped.

"What?" he spluttered.

"She leaned forward and kissed me. I didn't see it coming. I am a little unnerved but that is all," I cleared my throat and lay down on the sofa.

I was very aware of him watching me closely.

"That was your first kiss wasn't it?" he said quietly. I glanced sideways at him, irritated.

"No, I've kissed her before remember?"

"No, I mean that was the first time a girl kissed you isn't it?"

"No, The Woman did once remember?"

"I mean on the lips!"

I decided to ignore his question.

"Have we got any biscuits?"

"Sherlock-" John said warily.

"Have we got any biscuits?" I said again, forcefully. I didn't want to talk about it. I refused to talk about it. I wanted biscuits.

So he just sighed and raided the kitchen.

"We have some digestives," he suggested. Waving the packet at me.

"That'll do,"

He tossed the packet at me, which I caught one handed and tore them open. I took a couple and offered him them.

They were crumbling and rather mediocre, probably due to the fact that they were Sainsbury's own brand. But they were better than nothing. John took a couple too, dunking them in his tea.

"So, what case has Lestrade got you?" he asked me. I felt incredibly grateful for his change of subject and rewarded him with eye contact, knowing he preferred it when I looked at him.

"He didn't say much. Look at the text," I opened his message and spun it round in my hand so it was the right way up for John to look at. His eyes followed the words quickly.

"Donovan doesn't know about this one?" he echoed the text, brows furrowed, "what does that mean?"

Oh lord he could be slow. I smiled sympathetically at him.

"It means that it is personal. Why else wouldn't he tell his second in command?" I prompted him. He scowled at me.

"Don't do the face, for God's sake!" he groaned, "I hate it when you do the face,"

I checked myself.

"Sorry,"

"Whatever," he helped himself to another biscuit. I glanced at the clock and groaned. We had an hour. I wanted more caffeine but the look on Johns face told me that he could not take any more of my hyper behaviour. But it was fun to wind him up.

But it seems my intention showed on my face anyway.

"No you can't have more caffeine!" he exclaimed sternly, "I might end up punching you again!"

"I'm used to threats now," I sighed, bored, "try something less boring,"

"I could break your arm?" he suggested.

"Mediocre for an army doctor, stop boring me!" I said exasperated.

"For God's sake Sherlock!" John cried, "Can't I have a normal conversation with you?"

I was offended. Completely. So I glared at him. How dare he call me normal!

_A/n: sometimes I feel so sorry for Molly! I wrote this chapter whilst in one of those moods, after watching The Reichenbach Fall. _

_I'm sorry if it was boring, but I hope you enjoyed it!_

_Oh and I promised to name all the people so far who have followed me too!_

_So thank you:_

_Brianna. T. Wedge_

_drpaz_

_Marionetka_

_Charlotte-Holmes-Jones_

_Pinkhebi_

_Jokibunny_

_EtherealHope_

_Whitewolfsorrow_

_Aquarius15_

_Sherlock12_

_Stardotbrite_

_Sneakysnakes_

_Aja1000uk_

_The lovely K chan _

_Ronneygirl_

_wolfieBurnsTheNight_

_sherlockfan22_

_KGIB18_

_RoSiExOjAcOb_

_Schmiezi_

_Starlit Revenge_

_DoctorShan876_

_Is-this-supposed-to-be-clever_

_SketchbookPianist_

_The Great Unknown_

_Mgvignal_

_Thank you all of you for following my story! I love you guys so much!_

_Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Please review! Please let me know what you think!Xxx _


	10. Chapter 10 A Mystery

Chapter 10- A Mystery

_A/n: oh my god! I actually can't believe I've got to chapter 10! Thank you, thank you everyone so much for sticking with me for so long, I honestly didn't expect the reception I am getting from this story! I'm just going to say thank you to Arianadeduction, The Lovely K-chan and sherlockfan22 for reviewing yesterday and today! The support is absolutely unbelievable! And thank you to everyone else who I really hope are enjoying this story so far! Thank you, thank you, thank you! _

_I think this is my longest chapter yet! I really hope it doesn't bore anyone! Please enjoy it and review and enjoy and review and… you know! Xxx _

JW

Thank the Lord for Lestrade. I seriously think that I would have ended up murdering Sherlock if he had carried on the way he had. He had been driving me up the wall.

Warily, I led Lestrade up to Sherlock and sat next to him whilst Lestrade took my favourite seat. I offered him tea and coffee, but only gave Sherlock deliberately weak tea, partly to get back at him for the hours of grief he had given me, partly to make sure his caffeine levels were very low so that we were in no danger of him going hyper.

The look in his face as I gave it him was absolutely priceless.

"So what's the case Greg?" I asked him, to keep myself from bursting out laughing. He sighed in response.

"My sister is being accused of murder,"

His words were met by a long ringing silence. My jaw must have dropped because the next thing I knew, Sherlock was nudging me and I had to snap my mouth shut.

"How?" I spluttered finally finding my tongue. He looked at me gravely.

"She didn't do it did she Sherlock?" he asked desperately. Sherlock looked at him.

"I need information," he said crisply, "I can't just say yes- or no," he added hastily as Lestrade flinched, "I need information,"

"I need you with me Sherlock," he said, "we can keep you undercover, we could even arrange a comeback case, I just need you! Please! Oh god Sherlock please!"

Sherlock looked hesitant. I could tell he wanted to do it, Hell, I wanted to do it. I was starting to get sick of having to be Sherlock's boredom vent.

"A comeback case would be great!" I said as enthusiastic as I could manage in the gravity of the situation. Sherlock gave me a sideways look, but I tried to reason with him by giving him a look of my own. After a furious silent battle, I gave up.

"I can't," said Sherlock.

"This case Sherlock, it's good. You won't get bored! I'm promise! I just need you to help me,"

"Information!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"My sister was accused of murder of a man called Jaden Haye, on the same night that she had a break in at her house. They are treated as unrelated, but I don't think they are. Nothing was taken but on the window was a message. This,"

He handed him a photograph. I leaned over. It was a picture of a window, framed by lilac curtains. Painted on the glass in red glistening paint were the words:

_I am watching_

"They're linked," Sherlock agreed, "but how can they be in two places at the same time? There must be more than one. A group who are personally trying to frame your sister..." he muttered under his breath, and then looked up.

"Fine," he sighed, though his eyes were bright, "I'll take the case, but keep me undercover,"

Lestrade looked as though he was about to kiss Sherlock.

"You. Are the best," he said looking giddy with relief and happiness. He got up.

"Come with me,"

"Come on John," Sherlock tossed me my coat.

"Now?" I asked, startled, my coat in my lap.

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently, "The sooner the better, I doubt the streets will be busy, and if they were the traffic would mainly be around the main roads," He gazed at the wall intently, no doubt visualising every street that may be congested. Lestrade tossed him a hat and a luminous police jacket before giving me a police overcoat. We shrugged them on whilst he appraised us both.

"Not bad," he said, "not at a first glance..."

We headed outside for the first time in days; I couldn't hold back my relief. It was so good to feel the cool breeze on my face, to walk on the street.

Lestrade's silver Mercedes was parked on the side of the road, its sleek black- out windows reflecting the houses opposite in a distorted fashion that made them look like rounded bungalows. I got in after Sherlock and watched in silence the houses go past. Occasionally, Sherlock would instruct Lestrade to go a quieter way, taking sharp corners or slim backstreets in attempt to draw less attention to us. I couldn't help thinking though, that staying on the main road would look less suspicious and would help us blend in. Of course mentioning that to Sherlock would no doubt earn me a murderous glare on his part. Especially as when I tried to even speak he shot me a glance that would of rendered me dead long before now if looks could actually kill.

I was starting to thank God that they didn't.

Finally, before the tension in the silent car was almost impossible to bare, we pulled up outside a quiet courtyard. The houses here would no doubt be terribly expensive and therefore I was surprised when Lestrade lead us to the grandest house on the row. It was tall and opposing, with red painted windowsills and door. The house even had its own, excruciatingly tiny, garden.

It would of been very pretty if it hadn't of been for the police tape, stuck to the door and windows.

"This is where your sister lives?" I asked, not being able to keep the surprise out if my voice.

"Yes, her job is. Well. A lot better than mine in terms of pay," Lestrade said warily, taking a key out of his coat pocket, "I'll show you in,"

He led us in to a large bedroom, the extents of which had been unclear in the photo. The window, and the space around it, had been taped. A large lilac double bed, matching the curtains, stood grandly in the middle of the room, neatly made with an elaborate white headboard. The white wardrobes set into the far left wall, had floor length mirrors which reflected the room and give the illusion of the room being bigger. An elegant dressing table looked like the most used thing in the room. Glittering jewellery was draped and sprawled on the surface, along with pots of makeup, looking as though it had just been dropped there. A white desk lamp stood with a sadly drooping head looking over the scene.

Sherlock immediately began his search, looking around the room, lifting and observing objects, sniffing the air like a police dog. I, however, took a more practical approach by going to the window. It was no longer glistening as it had on the picture, and its colour had dulled to a coppery brown, smeared on the glass painstakingly by what might have been a finger.

A sudden, rather sickening idea struck me and I turned to Lestrade, who was watching Sherlock whirl around the room silently.

"How was the man murdered?" I asked quietly. He looked at me.

"A knife," he said, "his throat was slit,"

"A lot of blood then," I said. He nodded.

"Well, I think this might be his blood," I pointed to the window. Sherlock's head snapped up from where he was standing by the bed.

Lestrade, however, just nodded.

"It is, I've done a DNA test, but it just convinces people more that she did it and was trying to frame someone else."

Sherlock pressed his fingers together, and then pointed them in Lestrade's direction.

"Your sister, what is she like?"

"Umm," struck by the question Lestrade took a while answering it.

"A smoker. She's...Clever but funny, you know? She's really kind..."

"yes, ok... she's five foot four with a shoe size of 4 and hair colour of brown," Sherlock finished, "she likes reading gossip magazines and her favourite animal is a lion,"

He was silent for a while, then said, "Do you mind if I take this?" he gestured to a small pot if grey foundation by the side of the bed. Surprised, and more than a little confused, Lestrade shook his head.

"You got all that from this room?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Did she know anyone that might of... Wanted to hurt her?"

"No, I don't think so," Lestrade dug his hands deep into his pockets, "the only person I've ever seen her fight with was her ex- boyfriend. Joe, his name was, but he died last month."

"Hmm," Sherlock glanced around the room once more then glided over to the window. He looked it up and down, then snapped open his rectangular magnifying glass. "Marks," he mumbled, brushing them with his finger, "here and here…"

They looked like dents a finger may have made, but that knowledge only confused me more.

"Blood, where it dripped, here…" he pointed them out.

"He used his finger I think," I said pondering.

He straightened up, giving me that look where he gazed at you over his perfectly straight nose, mouth slightly open as if unnerved by your words.

God it was so condescending.

"What?" I asked defensively.

"'he used his finger' you said he, not she," he noted, as if it was some major clue, "why?"

"I dunno, I suppose I'm not used to having female murderers," I said with a shrug.

He snapped the magnifying glass shut and focused back on Lestrade.

"Can you show me the victim's house? Where is it?"

"What? Now?" he said disbelievingly. I checked my watch. It was 8.30.

"Yes now, don't you want to solve it?"

"Of- course,"

"Good," satisfied, he stuffed the glass into his pocket and buttoned up the police coat, "so where is it?"

"Not far," Lestrade strode out of the room, me in toe, "he lived in Battersea, near the Thames,"

We got in the car and Lestrade drove us along the main road. It was quiet now so it didn't matter that it was a popular one.

This house was smaller and absolutely covered in police tape. In fact, the tape extended a few metres along the road, to make sure no one went near it. Lestrade lifted it so we could duck under it more easily.

"It should be empty now, the police have moved on," he said, throat tight. I squinted through the grime streaked window looking into the front room, but it was too dark to see anything but my reflection. The house looked very unwelcoming, like an empty fireplace.

"Where did he die?" I asked, quietly, as Lestrade handed me a mini torch. I was dark now.

"Bedroom. We think he was asleep when the killer came in."

"We're not using the lights I'm guessing," I said slowly, observing the torch.

"I thought it best not to attract attention," he replied, tossing Sherlock one, who , unbelievingly, caught it one handed without looking.

"So we're looking in the bedroom?"

"Yes, the house has been searched already so I'm guessing any clues will be in the bedroom,"

I nodded, exhaling slowly, "right,"

Sherlock, meanwhile was studying the door, the windows, the door handle. He took out his little magnifying glass and looked more closely.

Finally, he straightened up.

"The killer used the same methods to break in to this house as he did in your sister's house," he said slowly, "it's a well-known method and very quiet, I doubt neither of them heard it- look," he beckoned me over, and pointed to the key hole. I saw scratches and dents in the wood around it. I nodded, pretending to understand to prevent him from showing off. He brushed down his coat.

"Shouldn't take more than a push after that," demonstrating, he pushed the door gently, watching as it swung on its hinges, revealing a cramped, narrow hall. I clicked on my torch and skimmed its beam around the room. It glanced off a door, the peeling wallpaper, the small table that held a bowl full of keys and a photograph. I picked it up with my spare hand, shining the beam on it so I could see it more clearly. The light reflected off the glass frame, but I could see it. A laughing man, probably the victim, stood with his left arm slung over the shoulder of a young woman. She was laughing too, her hair caught in the wind which flew across her face in streamers. She was looking up at him adoringly, it was very sweet. I turned to show it to Lestrade but they had gone, disappeared upstairs I supposed.

I also guessed that they wouldn't mind me sneaking around. So I pushed my way into the living room, directing my torch beam across the room.

In the shadows, the sofa looked well-worn and lumpy, more photographs hung on the walls, winking as the torch beam was reflected off the glass. A closer look at them proved that they mainly showed the same woman. The blond woman with the laughing face. She was laughing in a lot of them.

I tore my eyes away from them to inspect the other half of the room. A vintage TV was pushed in the corner, sitting smartly on a dark varnished cabinet. The fireplace yawned widely, a gaping hole in the darkness. A vase stood in the corner, filled with dried flowers. It struck me as odd, the flowers. It was a man's house after all and this was such a feminine feature. My thoughts went to the laughing woman. Perhaps she lived here too? But where was she? She hadn't been there the night he'd died. So where had she been?

I went over to the vase for a closer look. It was a big vase, a vibrant copper colour, perhaps Chinese, up to my waist in height. It's wide lip yawning in the darkness. I shone my torch into the hole, pushing away the brittle flower stalks.

A metal object in the depths winked back.

I froze, leant down, manoeuvred the torch a little.

It glinted again.

Slowly, I pulled out some of the flowers, peering into it.

It was a knife.

There was a knife in the vase!

"Sherlock!" I shouted. I heard him thunder down the stairs and in a flash he was in the room. He shone his torch right at my face making me wince.

"Stop that and look at this!"

"What is it?" he strode over to me.

"There's a knife in the vase,"

"What?" this was Lestrade. He had appeared in the doorway.

"A knife, Lestrade, in the vase. I thought you'd checked the house?" I said ,unsettled, narrowing my eyes at him as Sherlock leaned in to retrieve the knife.

"I didn't, another guy did, someone called Jeffrison, I assumed he had," Lestrade said.

Sherlock observed it closely.

"This has blood on it," he said, as lightly as commenting on the weather.

Lestrade paled.

"It can't have, we have the knife back at the office. It- it has my sisters finger prints on it,"

"What?" I gaped at him. He looked sad.

"It has my sisters DNA all over it. That's why people think she committed the murder. But she was at home, experiencing a break in," he looked desperate now.

"Greg," I said gently, "are you just doing this because it's your sister? You don't want her to be a killer so you are trying to bail her out?"

"No," he said, trying to be firm, "she's not a killer. She would never kill anyone,"

"I think… I think we can prove that Lestrade," Sherlock said, talking for the first time in a while, "this could be the real knife used. The killer could have hidden it in a hurry to hide evidence. We just need to do a DNA check on this knife," he wrapped the blade delicately in some tissue, holding it there, to keep the fingerprints fresh on the hilt.

"We're going," he said to me.

"Well," I stammered, "did you find anything upstairs?"

"Quite a lot," said Sherlock before Lestrade could open his mouth. He shot him a quizzical look which told me that only Sherlock had found 'quite a lot' upstairs. In any case, I followed him out and Lestrade did too.

"So, where are we going?" I asked briskly, watching him stride down the street imperiously just like old times.

"St Bart's of course, Molly will get us in," he ducked into the car and Lestrade had no choice but to drive us there. But I think he would of anyway. The poor guy was desperate to prove his sister was innocent.

I had never seen him so desperate before. Not even when we listened with bated breath to the kid tied to the bomb, counting down whilst Sherlock tried to prove the Vermeer painting was a fake. And that had been pretty horrendous.

St Bart's was quiet. The large windows were illuminated by a yellow glow, but the car park was virtually empty. The site of it made me feel slightly ill, and my chest started aching. That damn building held so many terrible memories for me, I could hardly bare to look at it. Especially not the roof.

I swallowed, and forced my eyes away from it, back to Sherlock.

We went through the side door, which had a straight root to the back lab. On the way down the white dull corridor, Sherlock somehow managed to kidnap Molly, and she was dragged along too. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her again, as I looked at her nervous smile and trembling fingers. The poor girl had completely fallen for him and there was nothing she could do about it.

Suddenly, I remembered the photos of the young woman in the house.

"Hey, Sherlock?" I said, causing him to glance over his shoulder at me, "at the house-"

"Which house?" he interrupted.

"Umm at the man's house," I said, slightly put off by his interruption, "there were lots, and I mean lots, of photographs of a woman. A blond woman,"

"And?"

I blinked.

"And what?"

"What does it matter?" he said, sounding bored.

"well-" I was surprised at his less than enthusiastic behaviour, "I wondered who she was and where she was on the night he died. If she meant that much to him that there were pictures of her all over the place, where was she?"

"Good point," said Lestrade, eyebrows raised, "I could try and find a match for her, I just need a picture,"

"Was the guy married?" I asked. He shook his head.

"So it was a girlfriend?"

"Possibly,"

"Umm sorry, but what are you going on about?" Molly asked with an awkward laugh.

"It doesn't matter," I assured her. Her lips gave a tremor as she smiled. I noticed that since the last time I had glanced at her, she had somehow managed to apply some lipstick. This literally made my heart ache for her.

"Boring," Sherlock grunted, pushing open the lab doors, "who cares?"

"She could be a suspect," Lestrade said, while Sherlock flicked on the lights. The Large, rectangular panels flickered on slowly, dimly lighting the room. Long desks stood row on row like attentive soldiers, their surfaces cluttered by equipment. At the back of the room, white, scrubbed-down cupboards held some of the more delicate equipment, the names of these printed on the white sticky label taped to their doors. White, office blinds masked the view outside. A lonely chair had been left upended in the far right corner. White, plastic moulded stools were tucked neatly under the rim of each desk; Molly sat down on one quickly.

"So, what are you doing then?" she asked quietly, as Sherlock and I began ripping off the stupid yellow police overcoats.

Sherlock glanced at her, then for some reason decided to blatantly ignore her, so I decided to step in to cover his tracks, shooting him a stern look as I did.

"We're going to test the DNA on this knife handle, so we can work out the murderer of a case," I explained, hanging the coat up and dusting off my jumper.

"We are also going to test this bit of residue, left on the carpet in his room," Sherlock said suddenly, waving a plastic specimen bag at me. A small amount of grey rubble had collected in the one corner. At least it looked like rubble. Before I could take a closer look however, he had whisked it away back to his pocket. I watched him rub a small amount of white powder onto the hilt, using what looked like a small foundation brush. He blew gently and I saw the remains of a finger print slowly get uncovered.

"There's our killer," said Sherlock softly. He and Lestrade began the test. Quite soon their words became a foreign language so I decided to keep Molly company.

_A/n: so today I'm going to ask for something special. How has the __whole story__ been so far? Not just this chapter, the whole thing? What have you liked, disliked, any improvements etc. please review! This will hopefully give me a feel for what you all think so far and if I can do anything to make it better! So please, please review and again, I really hope you are enjoying it and I would absolutely love to hear from you all! It would make my day! Really…_


	11. Chapter 11 Confession

Chapter 11- Confession

_A/n: so yesterday didn't really go as well as I planned… no one reviewed but its ok, I just get very worried about whether it's rubbish or not. I really, really hope you are all enjoying it! Please review if you can! I know its work but I really love getting reviews and knowing what you all think! Please, please try and review!_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter! Please enjoy and review if you can! Xxx _

JW

I went over to where she sat nervously, hands clasped in her lap. I drew up a chair and sat next to her, smiling.

"So, you ok?" I asked. She sighed in response.

"I knew it was for something," she said quietly, "that day he called me over,"

She blushed furiously and looked down, biting her lip, "he always does it,"

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

"Oh come on, you know him the most, you know that he only flirts to get what he wants,"

It was my turn to sigh.

"I know, I'm sorry. I just don't think he realises how much it hurts people,"

"How can he not?" to my horror, I saw tears glistening in her eyes, "I just wish, just once- he- I - " she broke off, looking sadder than I'd ever seen her. She looked up at me.

"Have you ever- I mean- do you- umm," she sighed frustrated, "have you ever wanted someone, so bad, yet they just think you're invisible?" she spoke in a rush, breathlessly, as if she had wanted to get that off her chest for ages. I was shocked at her forwardness. Quiet Molly who was always shy around Sherlock, obviously fancied him, was now speaking up about it?

I looked up where Sherlock was leaning over the desk, looking through a microscope. He was completely oblivious to us. I couldn't remember ever feeling like that, but it must be pretty horrible.

"I'm sorry Molly," I sighed. I couldn't think of anything else to say. She bit her lip again, making it bleed slightly.

"Do you know that he's a Sociopath?" I asked, hoping it may help to try and explain his detachment. Her head snapped up.

"What?"

Obviously not.

"Sherlock's a high functioning Sociopath,"

She put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh god," she said, "that's why he- I've been- oh god," she closed her eyes.

"I should have realised, that's why he's so... Distant,"

"Exactly," I said nodding, "so he does care about you Molly, he just finds it difficult to show it. It's the same with me. He was always pushing me away, saying he doesn't have friends and I thought he was- well- heartless- but then he jumped off that building. He jumped off that building to save me- hell, he pushed a guy out of the window for punching Mrs Hudson! He does things like that, because he does care. But he just shows it differently to normal people,"

She was listening raptly with wide eyes.

"Really?" she whispered, "that's why he jumped?"

"To save me, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, yes," I nodded, "in fact, not many people would do that for their friends, would they?"

She looked down, shook her head.

"I- I don't know what to do," she mumbled, eyes downcast, "I just can't- I can't think about anyone else. Is that bad?"

I smiled sadly.

"No, Molly, you're only human,"

SH

I had been sure that it hadn't been Lestrade's sister the moment we stepped into the guy's house. Now, I was definite. It was obvious by the marks along the bed, the marks on the door , the knife in the vase. Now, the DNA proved it. It showed up as a man called Mark Goodman.

"This is the real knife that killed the man," I said to Lestrade, "the other was a decoy, stolen from your sister's house during the break in. It would have been covered in your sister's fingerprints. Then all they had to do was smear it in the guy's blood and hide this knife, framing her! Neat!" I said enthusiastically. I held up the grey powdery substance to show him.

"This is the same powder I found in your sister's house. They must of knocked over the tub and accidentally tread on it. When they went to the man's house, they left the residue on the floor, telling us the guy had been to both houses," I showed him the pot of grey powder I had taken from his sister's house earlier. "Found on the floor,"

He leaned in close.

"Amazing," he breathed.

I pointed to the screen, where Mark Goodman's face leered at us.

"He is your Killer. Give the police this evidence and your sister will walk free,"

Lestrade looked so happy he nearly fainted.

"Thank you Sherlock, God thank you so much!"

I shrugged, trying to hide my smugness.

"It was an interesting case,"

He wrung my hand energetically and I rolled my eyes. Seriously, people over did it sometimes.

"Sherlock?" I looked over to John as Lestrade positively skipped out of the room.

He looked incredibly sheepish for some reason and Molly was looking at the floor, face burning.

Why was her face burning whenever I looked at her?

I went over to them.

"You've solved the case then?" he asked briskly.

"Yes,"

"So, we can go?"

"Yes,"

"Good," he got to his feet, "I'm starving,"

I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes at him.

"You are always starving,"

He shrugged, "I'm only human,"

"Aren't we all?" I snapped, suddenly wary of his small talk.

He shot me a warning glance. I looked skywards warily.

"For god's sake John, I'm not a bloody child, I don't need you to keep giving suggestive glances," I seethed, irritated.

He fell silent.

"I'm not sure if you're human though," he responded coolly after a moment.

I just gazed at him blankly.

"Let's just go," he sighed, grabbing the overcoat. He walked out without checking behind him. Angry, I decided to dawdle, he could go if he wanted I would stay, if that's what he wanted. I went back over to the desk where I was working and started clearing up.

"Umm Sherlock?" I jumped, looked up. It was Molly.

"Oh," was all I said. She bit her lip. She'd made it bleed, I realised.

"You've made your lip bleed," I pointed out. She touched it self-consciously.

"I can-umm- I could clear up if- umm- if you wanted to- go," she said quietly. I looked at her for a second, scrutinised her.

"No thank you Molly I will do it," I replied, leaning back over the desk to collect the dirty microscope slides, "you can go,"

"I don't want to," she mumbled. I froze when putting them delicately in the white box. I straightened up, regarded her carefully.

"You don't want to?" I echoed, confused, "why?"

"Because- umm- well- you'll be on your own," she said quietly. I was struck by her concern, but waved it away, impatiently.

"I'm fine," I closed the slide box, put it neatly in the white tray next to the other boxes, "thanks, "I forced.

"Ok," she said, voice raising a few octaves.

She began to walk out. I carefully replaced the translucent plastic over the top of the microscope, with a sigh.

"Umm Sherlock?"

Molly was still in the door way.

"Yes?"

"Umm- I'm- I'm- sorry- for the other day- I-"

She was starting to babble in her panic, her cheeks getting redder and redder. I sighed again.

"Molly. Molly. Molly…" I repeated over and over; I walked over to her and placed my hands on her shoulders. She looked up at me.

"It doesn't matter," I said seriously, "it. Doesn't. Matter, ok?"

Her lower lip trembled.

"Ok?" I repeated forcefully.

She nodded slowly.

"I don't…" I sighed, "I didn't mind, really," I knew that saying that would help calm her down.

I saw a light flicker in her eyes and grinned. I released her and put on the ridiculous police coat Lestrade had given to me. Then I did one last clear up of the desk and headed out. Molly was still standing in the doorway, clad in her black winter coat and bobble hat. She appeared to be frozen in position and her silence was deafening. I knew that there were lots of questions going around her head but I ignored her, striding swiftly back down the corridor. I pushed open the grey doors and a gust of wind ruffled my hair.

"You know, you don't have to be so bloody irritating all the time,"

It was John. I turned and saw him leaning against the bricks, hair slightly static from them.

"You waited for me?" I was surprised. I had expected him to go home. Yet here he was, leaning as if he had been frozen to the bricks, his face set. He was cold. His muscles were tense.

"Of course I waited, you git, I wasn't going to leave you alone, was I?" he paused, then added reluctantly, "Plus I forgot my wallet,"

I snorted.

"Right," I started walking down the road, feeling incredibly exposed in the luminous jacket, "I suppose I need to say sorry?" I supplied warily.

He blew out a long noisy breath.

"Would be nice," he said coolly, falling into step beside me. He was peed off. But more perhaps at the wait than at our mini argument.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap,"

He stayed silent, I turned us down an alley that I knew would lead us to a well-known street no doubt filled with cabs.

"What took so long anyway?" he asked, hands in pockets, "I was waiting for bloody ages,"

Again with the swearing! He must be peed off. His words confirmed it was the wait and not the argument.

"I cleared up, had a chat with Molly on the way out,"

"Oh?" his careful voice immediately told me that he was holding something back from me. That and the sheepish expression on his face. It was something to do with Molly. I glanced at him.

"What did she say?" he asked.

"I don't understand, why are you so interested?" I snapped.

"I dunno, she did kiss you last time," he said defensively.

I grunted noncommittally, then it struck me.

"You spoke to her about me didn't you?" I sighed.

"Well-" he hesitated.

"I thought so," I gritted my teeth and waved down a cab.

"She's in a state Sherlock," he said desperately, "she's completely…completely lost over you!"

I froze. A cab had pulled up and the door was half open. I turned to him.

"No she's not, why is she?" I said the words quickly, making them flow into each other.

John got in the cab and I followed him.

"Baker Street please," I said to the back of the drivers head. John ignored this disturbance.

"Yes she is Sherlock, she admitted to me that she-" he seemed to swallow his words. I could see his lips working, unsure how to go on.

"She what?" I squinted at him.

"She loves you Sherlock," he sighed.

I immediately thought back to that Christmas where I had deduced her love for someone, the red Christmas present I had thought was for a boyfriend but was actually for me. I had had my suspicions then. Of course when she kissed me it only confirmed my suspicion. But hearing it from John made it seem more real. It was a weird feeling.

"I did- get that idea," I said slowly.

"Yes and you keep using her! So what did she say to you?" he asked impatiently.

"She said sorry- again," I said warily, "and I said I didn't mind,"

He gaped at me.

"You said what?" he gasped. I glanced sideways at him, confused at his reaction.

"I said I didn't mind, is that a problem?" I said irritably.

He just gaped at me.

"Oh for god's sake!" I exclaimed furiously, "what is it?"

"You. Didn't. Mind. Her. Kissing. You?" he said, putting deliberate spaces between each word.

"No I didn't, didn't you hear me?" I couldn't see anything wrong with what I had said, so why he was looking so stricken was confusing.

"Of course I heard you, I just- I never expected it," he finally broke his gaze and looked out of the window. It was dark now, the street lights bright and blazing against the pitch black sky. It caused me to see John's bewildered face in the reflective glass.

"Uh," I moaned, rubbing my temple, "I said it to stop her from worrying! How hard is it to understand that? She was panicking, I rested her mind!"

He glanced quizzically at me but otherwise left it alone. I was grateful for it.

"So was it his sister?" he asked instead.

"No, it was a man, Mark Goodman, I believe his name was. Well known killer. He framed Lestrade's sister, for some reason, and disposed of the real knife,"

"Unbelievable," John shook his head with a nervous laugh.

"I know,"

"Lestrade was pretty worked up about it- he seemed so happy when he left earlier,"

I groaned.

"I know, I had to say, I was worried that he was going to kiss me at one point,"

We looked at each other. And burst out laughing.

_A/n: so another 'sorry for Molly' chapter! I'm really sorry if it was boring or if it was disappointing but I really, really hoped you enjoyed it!_

_Please, please review today, I would really like at least one before I put up the next chapter :D_

_So please guys, it would mean so much to me! _


	12. Chapter 12 Suspicion

Chapter 12- Suspicion

_A/n: this is the first chapter in Gregg's POV, so I hope it's ok and that you enjoy it! It's quite short so I might put the next chapter up later on if I have time! _

_Oh, and I want to apologise for my worrying fit yesterday! I just can't help worrying sometimes, but I will try to stop, I promise! _

_Anyway, here is the next chapter! I hope you like it and its ok and it doesn't disappoint you!_

_Please enjoy and review if you have the time or patience. Xxx _

GL

Donovan was waiting when I got back to the office, grinning like an idiot.

"What's made you so happy?" she drooled suspiciously. I shrugged.

"Good night," I slouched over to my desk, and put the closed white envelope containing the case in the bottom draw. I would show the court the evidence tomorrow.

"I'm not stupid Lestrade," she said haughtily, hands on her slender hips, "something's happened. This afternoon you were terrible,"

"I lead a case, and it went well, don't push it Donovan," I warned, uncomfortable with the pressure, "just because you're second in command doesn't mean you get to nose about,"

She looked affronted, but dropped it.

"Another case has come through," she said monotonously, "they asked for you personally,"

"Oh?" I looked up interested.

"The guy's coming in tomorrow," she informed me, "I told them you would see to it then,"

"Oh good, good thanks," I nodded at her. Still, she stood in the door, lips pursed.

"Are you gonna tell me?" she asked.

"Tell you what?" I shrugged.

"Why you turn up after 5 hours with a grin on your face?"

"Is it really that important?" I said, irritated. She shrugged.

"Like I said, I'm not stupid; I know you went to Baker Street the other day. Why?" her eyes had narrowed now.

"What's that got to do with anything?" I exclaimed.

"Why did you go to Baker Street?"

Oh god she was starting to piece things together. I kept my gaze steady. I sighed, deciding to use John's initial story.

"John, you know, John Watson wanted me to help him with something," I said it quietly, slowly as if it were painful. I knew I couldn't tell her the truth. Sherlock would kill me.

Literally.

Her eyebrows rose dramatically.

"Why now? It's been months," she pondered. I shrugged.

"Poor fellow, he's been depressed for months. He said he couldn't face the flat until now,"

She kept her lips in a severe line.

"You've been texting someone a lot recently,"

_For Christ sake! How the hell do you know that?_

I couldn't believe how nosy she was being.

"Jesus Christ!" I said in exasperation, "what is this, a mystery detective story? Can't I have a private life Donovan?"

"The numbers unrecognised," she continued relentlessly. I had no idea how she knew this.

"If you must know, it's John," I said through clenched teeth, keeping as close to the truth as possible, "he changed his number- he needs someone to talk to- now for Christ's sake, leave me alone!"

She pulled a face and slouched out of the room, frizzy hair bouncing.

"Jesus," I said aloud, trying to comprehend the conversation.

I decided that I had to keep a very low profile from now on. It had been a close call.

Just to make sure, I retrieved the envelope from the draw and tucked it under my jacket, with the intention of taking it home with me.

I also decided to delete my browser history and sent emails. I couldn't have Donovan figuring things out too early. Until Sherlock wanted to come out, it would have to be kept secret.

The unfortunate thing was, Donovan was a very bright woman.

Though I know Sherlock would disagree.

_A/n: so how was it? Did I do Lestrade ok? I hope so! I really hope you are enjoying it!_

_Please review if you can, if not I can only hope that you are enjoying it so far! X _


	13. Chapter 13 A not so quiet night

Chapter 13- A not so quiet night

_A/n: as promised, I put this chapter up today too: D I really hope it keeps you nice and busy and I really hope you enjoy it!_

_So please enjoy and review if you have the time! I really need to know what you think of it! Xxx _

JW

That night saw Sherlock and I sitting silently oppose each other. He was crouched on the chair, lanky legs tucked underneath him, his fingers pressed together. He wobbled occasionally but didn't seem inclined to sit properly. After a while, it began to annoy the hell out of me. His stupid wobbling.

I lifted the newspaper so I couldn't see his precarious figure. The article was on a highly detailed murder of two kids in Sussex. I'd read it already. It wasn't good reading. I flipped over and read the latest news on the new film coming out, one that I had wanted to see. It was a comedy. I'd thought that it would be good to cheer us up. Apparently though, its reviews had been so bad, they'd had to take it out of cinemas early because the cost of the production was more than the ticket income. Plus Sherlock probably wouldn't agree to it anyway.

It was morning really, 2.47am. But I wasn't tired at all. I was restless. And so was Sherlock.

"What do normal people do when they're bored John?" Sherlock sighed, breaking my train of thought.

"Um," caught off guard, I couldn't really think of anything to say.

"Oh come on you must do something!" he groaned. He sprang up from the chair and whooshed over to the window, clenching his fists, and then unclenching them, "normal people get bored!"

"Yes," I agreed calmly watching him almost tare his hair out in frustration, "but we try and contain it,"

"But that's boring!" he exclaimed with a moan.

"Sherlock," I sighed.

_Here we go again!_

"John!" he gazed at me desperately.

I got up and went over to him.

"Calm down!" I said sternly, on-laying my words.

"Where are my cigarettes?" he hissed.

I groaned. I should have known he would ask sooner or later.

"No Sherlock!"

"Where are my bloody cigarettes?" he repeated furiously.

"Can't help you, sorry," I restrained his wrists, "you have nicotine patches, use them,"

"John!" he yelled.

"Sherlock!" I yelled back.

"Where have you put my bloody cigarettes?" he asked relentlessly. He searched wildly around the room. He ran over to the skull, lifting it, checked the inside. He destroyed the fireplace, sending soot everywhere. He ran to the book shelf. Books went sailing across the room, smacking the wall. Pages fluttered like butterflies in the air.

"Where are my damn cigarettes?" he roared.

I watched him placidly.

"Are you done?" I asked.

"Done? Done with what? I'm- I'm not-Not-"

"Not completely desperate?" I picked up a couple of rumpled books, "course not,"

My sarcasm made him stop in his frenzied demolishment of the flat.

He slammed down the vase he was holding back on the table.

"Please John?" he was almost begging, but I knew he was trying the polite trick on me. I saw his pout and the lost puppy eyes before I heard the please.

I stacked the books on the table.

"I can't help you sorry," I repeated.

He picked up the gun he used to shoot the yellow smiley face.

_Jesus!_

I was suddenly frightened. He must be desperate. But I had to hide my worry.

So I snorted.

"Oh right, you gonna shoot me if I don't tell you where your cigarettes are?" I asked idly.

He glanced at the gun.

"I could,"

My eyes narrowed.

"You wouldn't," I said in a low voice.

He sighed, put it down slowly.

"No," he agreed, "I wouldn't,"

He paced the length between the fireplace and the right wall.

"Sherlock," I sighed warily, "I'm not letting you destroy your lungs by smoking!"

"It's not up to you!" he snarled, "You're not my mother!"

"No, but I am your best friend!" I snapped, "And I am concerned about you!"

"Uhh, I'm fine without your concern," he said through clenched teeth, though, again, he didn't deny the friend thing.

He was starting to relax again now though, thank god. His shoulders visibly slumped. He lay on the sofa.

"That girl you mentioned, what did she look like?" he asked conversationally, pressing his fingers together.

"Um sorry what?" I stuttered, unnerved by the sudden change in subject.

"The girl, in the photographs, describe her,"

I raised my eyebrows.

"You said it was boring,"

"Yes but it seems wrong,"

I blinked.

"Sorry, what?"

He made a noise of impatience in the back of his throat.

"It seems wrong. The case. Like it's not solved yet. Too many holes…"

"Ok-ay,"

"The woman," he repeated, "describe."

"Well, umm, blonde,"

He glanced sideways at me.

"Blonde," he repeated wryly, "that's it?"

"No," I said snappishly, "she was -quite petite. Blue eyes I think, though I couldn't see much. It was faded,"

"Hmm,"

I waited, but it seemed as if that was his only response.

"So is she important?"

"Important? Yes. Somehow. Some. How," he mused.

"Right," I said, bemused.

He sat upright, to explain, I hoped.

"Yes. How many photographs would you say there were?" he shot at me.

"Umm, about 15?" I tried.

"Someone important then. Someone. A girlfriend? A lover? A sister? Uhh!" he buried his face in his hands, "important. Must be important! But where is she? Why wasn't she there? Think!"

"What has this got to do with the murder?"

"You were right John! Why wasn't she there? Why? If she meant that much to him? She hasn't turned up now either has she? The boy she loves murdered, and she hasn't come? Something's not right!"

"You said it was a man who murdered him," I said.

"It was, but she has to be involved! Can't you see?"

"No," I said blankly.

"Oh come on John! Think! She has to be important! Why else would she not be here?"

"Maybe she's dead," I said quietly. He paused.

"I suppose so," he muttered finally, "but she has something to do with it. She must have! We need to get a picture. We need to identify her!" he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it up.

"Tomorrow," I said firmly, "you need to rest," I glanced at the clock. It was 3.10am now, "and so do I,"

I was suddenly shattered. So wary I could barely move my arms. I yawned widely and was aware of him watching me closely.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"How can you be tired? My minds like a rocket, burning out of control, spinning into chaos,"

"Your rocket needs to land for a while," I sighed, "you're wearing me out,"

I steered him to his bedroom, and pushed him on his bed. His eyes were wide with surprise at my actions.

"Sleep," I ordered him, "you look terrible,"

He rubbed his eyes, then squinted up at me, "I'm. Not. Tired," he said, irritation colouring his tone.

"Tell your eyes that," as a doctor, I could tell the lack of sleep was starting to catch up with him. His usually perfect skin under his eyes had a slightly bruised look, shadows that only came when people were tired.

So I pushed him down.

"Relax," I whispered.

"John?" he said, eyes closed.

"Hmm?" I looked back at him from the door way.

"I would never ever shoot you,"

I chuckled.

"I know," I whispered back.

I closed the door quietly and picked my way through the mess of our living room to my bedroom, hoping to finally get some rest.

_A/n: so how was it? Was it ok? I really hope you enjoyed it! _

_I will promise not to worry (too much) if I don't get any reviews, but I would really appreciate at least one… please? Thank you again for reading and I really, really, really hope you are enjoying it so far! X _


	14. Chapter 14 New Day

Chapter 14- New Day

_A/n: thank you so much to mvignal and the guest who reviewed yesterday! I really appreciate your support and advice! _

_To everyone else, I really, really hope you are enjoying my story so far!_

_Not much I can say about this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!_

_Please enjoy, and review if you have the time :D_

_Oh and in case anyone noticed, I have stopped putting the dates up. This is because I forgot to keep track and it's just easier for me in general, so I'm sorry for any inconvenience! Xxx _

JW

The room was unnaturally quiet when I ambled in the next morning. In the cluttered chaos of books, soot and ripped pages, I sat, tea in my hand, wondering where Sherlock was.

For a terrible dizzying moment, I felt as if the past few days had been just a dream, and really, Sherlock was dead. I had to close my eyes and force the images away before it hurt too much.

Then, his bedroom door opened slowly, and a bedraggled Sherlock slumped into the room, his dressing gown hanging limply off his left shoulder.

"What time is it?" he asked thickly.

"Late," I said with a sleepy grin, "it's 11.45,"

He groaned, "I wanted to get up earlier than that!" he scowled at himself in the mirror.

"You can't tell your body to wake up if it's too tired," I told him, "and you were shattered,"

He spun on his heels to face me.

"Was I?" he asked looking surprised.

"Yes, and so was I," I said, slightly amused.

He blinked, then his mouth started to turn up at the corners.

"I distinctly remember you pushing me on my bed, John, how very interesting,"

I glared at him.

"Shut up, what the hell are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything," he grinned, "I'm merely stating,"

"Oh for God's sake," I scoffed, "I was being a doctor Sherlock!"

"Of course John," he bowed to me, my anger flared.

"Sherlock!"

He laughed, "I'm only winding you up John, and you never disappoint me,"

I shot him a murderous glance, then decided to ignore him. I went to the kitchen; dropped some bread in the toaster and, despite my fury, made him some tea anyway. Then I glanced out the kitchen window. It was a very grey day, with a thick fog that obscured the distant houses to blackened smudges. Car headlights winked like hazy fairy lights on the main road, which was nothing more than an almost invisible black snake in the fog. The condensation on the window was starting to trickle like snails tracks as the heat in the room built. It told me that it was very cold outside.

"It going to start raining in approximately half an hour," said Sherlock from the sofa.

"How do- oh never mind," I sighed, as the toast popped up with a cheerful clink. I slapped it on a plate, buttered it lightly and dropped it on the table with his tea.

He looked at the toast as though reading it.

"I'm not hungry," he said blankly.

"Oh, so no 'thank you ' then," I replied haughtily, picking up a piece, "it's for me as well,"

He scanned me then, his blue eyes distant.

"Thank you, " he forced.

I munched on my piece slowly. It wasn't bad actually, I thought proudly. Not as good as Mrs Hudson's but still fine. He just sat there, lanky fingers cupped around his tea, looking ridiculously thin.

"Even you have to eat you know," I said frowning at him.

He sighed impatiently.

"I know, I'm just not- hungry," he spoke deliberately slowly, his lips forming every word perfectly. He sipped his tea.

"Eat anyway,"

"No,"

"For me?"

He pulled a face.

"No,"

"Why?"

"I'm not hungry,"

"Why?" I was suddenly frustrated.

"I'm just not!"

I took another piece. There were two left. I took my time, nibbling at it, while he sipped his tea quietly.

"I'm going to get a shower ok?" I sighed, finally getting up.

"Go ahead, you may need to take the things out the bath first though,"

I froze.

"What things?" I asked, unnerved.

"Just experiments,"

I soon found out. The reek in the bathroom had me retching out of the small window, trying to gulp in some fresh air.

There were human fingers in the bath.

Human. Fingers!

Floating eerily in the water like something out of a horror movie.

It was absolutely discussing.

I stumbled back into the room, where an un-perturbed Sherlock lay on the sofa. To my intense surprise, the toast had gone. He'd eaten it after all.

"There is no way… I'm cleaning that up!" I yelled at him, feeling slightly ill, "you are doing that!"

"I did warn you," he said airily, "I'm experimenting on the effect of water on dead pores. I thought fingers were better than a full body,"

"Too right," I hissed, "when did you get them anyway?"

"St Bart's of course, yesterday,"

"Yesterday?" I echoed disbelievingly, wondering when the hell he had time to do that, "right,"

"So they need to stay there,"

"What?" I cried, "How are we supposed to shower?"

"I believe Mrs Hudson has a shower John," he said airily.

I stared at him.

"You _want_ me to break into Mrs Hudson's flat to use her shower?"

"No, but you do,"

I did of course, which sounds terrible.

"Yeah well it's locked, I can't get in without a key," I reminded him.

He threw me a dirty look.

"Seriously John, do you know me at all?" he scoffed.

I realised what he was saying straight away, and backed off.

"No," I said firmly, "absolutely not!"

"She's not home, no one would notice," he said scrambling from the sofa. He walked over the coffee table in his path to get to me.

"You are breaking and entering Sherlock! It's a crime!" I exclaimed.

"I'm not breaking anything, just entering," he said with a smirk.

I found myself getting steered down the stairs and going nose to nose with Mrs Hudson's door. Never before had it looked so threatening.

"Don't," I said feebly. He just gave me a flat stare, then looked to the lock.

"Small, Yale lock, easy," he inserted a straightened paper clip into the lock, wiggled it about a bit, then pushed gently.

It swung open.

An alarm went off.

Immediately Sherlock whirled around, observing the numbers, wiggling his fingers slightly.

"Oh Mrs Hudson," he sighed.

He punched in the numbers 4036. The alarm stopped.

"She's so predictable," he said with a grin, then bowed to me. I scowled.

"Enjoy your shower John," he said disappearing back up the stairs.

_A/n: just so you know I don't know if the 'paperclip in the lock' thing works, or what Sherlock is talking about in the experiment._

_Also, does anyone get what Mrs Hudson's code is? 40- 36? _

_I'll leave you until I put up the next chapter to guess- just a little game I thought I could play to keep you all interested… _

_Anyway I really hope you enjoyed it and please review if you have the time! X _


	15. Chapter 15 Something Missing

Chapter 15- Something Missing

_A/n: so did you get it the code? Shall I tell you? Ok…_

_40- John's age_

_36- Sherlock's age_

_I thought it was quite a nice touch to Mrs Hudson's motherly role in 221B._

_Well at least these ages are true to Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch anyway :D_

_So here is the next, and rather short, chapter which I really hope you enjoy! Please review if you can, you know how I love reviews xxx_

SH

The rain was later than I expected, which annoyed the hell out of me. With a scowl, I closed the curtains and sat on the coffee table, making the tea cups rattle on their saucers.

I needed to focus on the case. It was supposed to be closed but something was missing. A nagging sensation at the back of my mind. The woman John had seen in the picture was somehow important. She was definitely part of it, though at the moment, I didn't know how.

I had seen something in his bedroom that had been related to the woman but I couldn't remember what it was.

I groaned, infuriated.

There was defineitely something I was missing.

"You know, it's pretty embarrassing walking up the stairs with Mrs Hudson's floral towel wrapped around y- why are you on the coffee table?"

I glanced around at the sound of John's bemused voice. His chest was bare and muscled but around his waist, he'd wrapped a white towel covered in pink flowers. It was so ludicrous I couldn't help bursting into laughter at the sight of him. He looked distinctly rumpled.

"Shut up you b*******," he said looking incredibly chagrined, "I forgot my towel _and_ my clothes because you pushed me down the bloody stairs before I had a bloody chance to get them!"

I immediately sobered up.

"Right, I apologise," I said smartly, trying to hide my smirk.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"What are you doing on the coffee table?" he asked warily.

I shrugged.

"It was the nearest thing to me,"

"Why are the curtains closed?"

"The rain angered me,"

He gave me a strange look.

"You are very strange sometimes," he said decisively.

"Is that really news to you?" I scoffed, waving him away.

"No I suppose it's not," he hitched up the towel and walked as quickly as he could, as decently as possible wrapped in a towel, to his bedroom to get dressed.

"You going to have to wash that towel later John," I called, before roaring with laughter again. So much I had stitch. I couldn't get the image of John sneaking up the stairs to our flat, towel flapping ludicrously, out of my head.

Finally, a scowling, but more dignified John came out of his room, dressed in his favourite grey jumper and jeans. The floral towel was nowhere in sight.

"Better?" I asked him with a grin.

"Yes, thanks," he said, "it's a lot of fuss though, you need to clean the bath out soon,"

"Did you lock her flat back up?"

"Of course I did," he scoffed, looking insulted, "do you think I would of left it open?"

"Yes actually, seeing as you were too busy trying to look dignified in a woman's towel," I said, trying to keep the laughter from my voice and failing quite terribly.

"Shut up!" he groaned, "I swear I will get you back for that one day,"

"I look forward to it," I said dryly.

I got up and repositioned myself in my chair.

"We need to acquire a picture of that woman," I mused, changing the subject, "she's important,"

"Oh not this again?" he groaned exasperated, "I thought it was just you being hyper,"

I regarded him disdainfully.

"No, something is missing. It's important! What is it? What? What? What?" my voice became muffled as I buried my face in my hands. I tried to sort out my thoughts. I pictured his room. His room, so small. A bed pushed roughly against the wall, blood splattered on the sloping roof. An upturned chair. Scuff marks- signs of a struggle. A glistening something under the chair.

"Oh" I breathed, realisation hitting me like a brick; I snapped my head up to look at John, "Oh!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands together frenziedly.

"What is it?" John asked seemingly tied between unease and bewilderment.

"The man's room was small, so easy for a killer to make a mistake… easy. Silly in fact. So silly…"

"Umm do you mind telling me what's going on?" John asked huffily.

"Oh John, I knew there was something! A vital clue I was missing. In the victim's room, I spotted something. Something small and glittery. I wondered what it was but I got distracted. I now realise that cost us so much. So much John!"

"What? What was it?"

I sprang up, rushing to the door, "an earring John! An earring! This changes everything!"

I ran down the stairs, taking two at a time, reached for the door.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, "you can't just waltz out the flat, you idiot! What happened to undercover?"

I hate to bite back my retort furiously. Instead I sighed.

"I forgot," I admitted, really irritated. I needed to go and tell Lestrade.

"Jesus," he breathed, relieved, "I'll text Lestrade now and he can come and help,"

I nodded, breathing rapid as if I'd just been for a run, "good idea,"

I climbed the stairs head buzzing, feeling restless.

_A/n: I hope you liked it and it was ok- this chapter was just a little bit of fun :D _

_I hope you enjoyed it and I look forward to any reviews I may get xxx_


	16. Chapter 16 Interview

Chapter 16- Interview

_A/n: oh my goodness i'm so sorry for not posting yesterday! I feel so bad, I'm really, really sorry, I was just so busy last night!_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter. Its quite short so I'm sorry for that, but I really hope you enjoy it!_

_Please enjoy and review if you have the time! Xxx _

GL

The text came through at the worst possible moment.

I was in the interview room with the nervous, sweaty, slick haired man who'd watched a young girl get bashed with a rock. He claimed all the men had disappeared as he ran for help.

I didn't believe a word of it.

"This," I said, exasperated, gesturing to the situation, "is a load of shit, you do know that, right?"

"I swear it's the truth!" he exclaimed greasily, wide eyes flickering around the room, hardly settling on me at all.

I heard the ping of my phone go off and closed my eyes, infuriated.

_Bad timing_! I thought warily.

I heard Donovan, who was standing behind me, clear her throat suggestively.

I ignored it. Both of them.

"So you're saying they just disappeared? Like bloody fairies?" I continued scornfully, as if nothing had happened.

"They did, they did! I swear!"

"Yeah ok, or maybe you were on drugs and imagined it!" I leaned forward with a contemptuous expression on my face, "maybe you killed her,"

His pallid eyes widened.

"No!" he croaked.

"Donovan keep him in custody please, I'm finished," I pushed out of my chair, wary from the interrogation.

Donovan's eyes narrowed in my direction.

"Where are you going?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nose out Donovan," I warned as I strode out if the room. As I went, I dug my phone out of my pocket, glancing at the text:

Sherlock needs to talk. He says he missed something from the case.

JW

Dread and confusion filled me like a poison. I text back quickly:

On my way

GL

The sound of imperious heels clapping the grey laminate floor told me Donovan was behind me. Exasperation filled me to the brim and I turned with a blank expression to face her suspicious one.

"Donovan?" I sighed warily, rubbing my temple.

"sir, I feel the need to say that something is definitely up with you, you've been behaving quite weirdly these last few days, Anderson thinks so too," She piped up immediately.

"Anderson needs to keep his nose out of my private life!" I spat, "and so do you! Why are you so interested in what I'm doing?"

"Because, sir, you keep visiting Baker Street, all the unsolved cases you put to one side are suddenly solved, and, despite what you say, I know that's not John Watson you're texting," she replied frostily, "so what's going on?"

"Oh, not John Watson?" I scoffed sarcastically, "who do you suppose I'm texting then? My ex-wife?"

She pursed her lips furiously.

"We believe- that is Anderson and I- that He is back," she said it quietly, as if she was whispering that Santa was at the door.

I knew who she meant by He. I laughed bitterly. Or at least I hoped it sounded bitter.

"Don't be so daft Donovan," I snorted, "he is dead. You went to the bloody funeral for God's sake!"

Before she could say anything else, I hurried away from her. I couldn't keep up with her prying questions for any longer.

I decided that Sherlock needed to know. Donovan was getting nosy. Perhaps he could even have a comeback case. Something that proved he wasn't a fake and he was just as brilliant as he actually was. It would be so much easier if he did, for him and me.

In the silent car park, I glanced up at my office window shiftily. I kept getting that prickling feeling of being watched, and I was willing to bet my car that it was Donovan. She and Anderson were both getting suspicious.

I clambered in awkwardly, my eyes still on the window; started the engine and drove quickly from the car park, my worry increasing every yard I drove away from it.

_A/n: so bit of a disappointingly short chapter, so sorry about that! But I hope you enjoyed it anyway!_

_Please review if you have the time and I really hope you are enjoying it! Xxx _


	17. Chapter 17 The woman in the picture

Chapter 16- The woman in the picture

_A/n: I just want to say thank you to Exact Estimate for being so lovely and reviewing me last chapter. I think you know how much I apprectiate it :D _

_I also uploaded a little one shot (Exhaustion) as my second ever fanficition, which I really hope you like!_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter, which I really hope you all enjoy! Please enjoy and review if you have the time! Xxx _

JW

"no,"

"Sherlock…"

"I said no and it won't change,"

"Donovan's getting suspicious,"

"then you're not hiding it very well! I knew it was a bad idea,"

"you enjoy having cases again though don't you?"

On and on and on their argument went, Lestrade desperately trying to get Sherlock to make a public comeback, Sherlock stubbornly refusing.

"that doesn't change anything, I can't do it," his face was set into a blank mask, distant blue eyes like flints of ice.

"but-"

"Ok! Boys! Ok!" I finally had had enough of the bantering, and stepped in between them as if my body could block their words, "that's enough! We are not going to solve anything if you argue! Plus, it's not why I called you here,"

"John stop inflicting your opinions on us," Sherlock snapped vehemently. I gave him a cold, flat glare and continued.

"Sherlock thinks that something's missing from the case, he said that he'd spotted something that changes a few things,"

"oh!" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, nervously, "what did you find?"

After a moment of silence, in which it seemed Sherlock was debating whether or not to agree with me or continue being arrogant, he caved in.

"when we were in the victims room, Lestrade, I spotted an earring under the chair. What was an earring doing in a mans room? Unless a woman was in there for the murder?"

Lestrade paled.

"you think it's my sisters?" he croaked.

"no,"

He startled, confussed, "what?"

"I said no,"

"you don't think it's my sisters?" he said, relieved and bemused at the same time.

"I know it wasn't," he countered automatically, "we've already cleared your sisters name,"

"but-"

"that woman John saw in the picture, she has something to do with this, we need to find her," Sherlock mused, ruffling up his mess of curls.

"she could be dead," I said bleakly, echoing my thoughts from yesterday.

"yes thanks for your input," Sherlock retorted with a hiss.

"she could be-" Lestrade said musingly.

"she's not!" Sherlock said impatiently, "shes obviously not! Why else would there be an earring in his room? She could be a suspect! She could have lost it in the fight…" he was mumbling to himself again, his eyes flickered around the room vacantly as he assessed his idea. Lestrade and I could only sit and wait. It was torture to watch him. Especially for Lestrade, who had thought the case had been closed.

"I need to see a picture of the woman," Sherlock said finally, "you need to get me one,"

Lestrade nodded, "ok, i'll see what I can do,"

"make sure you can," he said shortly, "I need it- oh, and try not to make my return so blatently obvious anymore,"

Lestrade grimaced slightly.

"I just wish you would come back, to everyone! Not just us," he sighed as he got up, "it would be better for everyone,"

"no,"

Lestrade disappeared down the stairs, and the door slammed shut. The rumble of his engine filled the room and got quieter and quieter the further he got away.

"we're one step closer to solving the case," Sherlock exclaimed enthusiastically, jumping up and pacing the room.

"yeah, it would be great if you could achieve that without peeing everyone off first," I said irritably. He paused in his tracks and observed me calmly.

"I havnt have I?" he pondered.

"yep, Sherlock, yep you have," I hissed.

He came up to me and strangely, concern radiated on his expression.

"I apologise John," he sighed, "I didn't mean it,"

I crossed my arms. Why was he sucking up to me?

So I resigned.

"ok, Sherlock what do you want?"

He stopped, blinked.

"what do you mean?" he said, sounding genuinely confused.

I, however, was used to his incredible acting skills and just snorted.

"you're doing this for a reason. You want me to do something. What?"

"I was merely saying sorry," he said innocently, eyebrows raised, "I don't want you to do anything,"

I eyed him sceptically.

"yeah right," I snorted.

"no, really John," his eyes were deadly serious, his jaw set.

Flabbergasted, I drew back.

"really?" I asked bleakly.

"of course," he said with wide eyes.

"that's new then," I huffed, turning my back to him in order to raid the kitchen for biscuits. Unfortunately for biscuit addicts like Sherlock and I, Mycroft's shoppers had been incredibly skimping on the biscuits and the only ones we had were the soft, half eaten digestives we'd opened the other night. Still they were Better than nothing. I emptied the lot onto a plate and put the kettle on with a quiet sigh.

"John?" Sherlock snapped suddenly, "where's my revolver?"

I grinned discretely, but fixed a blank expression on my face as I turned with the tray.

"no idea,"I said, "you were the last to have it,"

He scanned me. Really scanned me.

"liar," he growled finally, "you know exactly where it is,"

"and if I did?" I taunted.

"you would give it to me now," he held out his hand expectantly. I shook my head.

"no,"

"so you _do_ know where it is!" he said triumphantly, "give it to me,"

"nope," I popped my lips on the p.

"please?"

I slammed my tea down. The sepia liquid was rocked out of the cup, and formed droplets on the table, seeping into the table cloth and blooming like brown flowers.

"so there was a reason for your 'sincere' apology," I scoffed furiously, "you want your revolver,"

He shot me a baleful glare.

"may I remind you that up until just, I didn't know you had it," he pointed out angrily, "why do you find it so hard to accept my apology?"

"because you never apologise," I exclaim, close to breaking point, "to anyone. Ever,"

He stared blankly.

"well, I think you'll find there are a lot of things I'm doing now that I never did before," he said frostily, shutting me up.

He leaned back onto the pillows.

"where is my revolver?"

"you are not having your revolver," I said immediately.

"why not?" he whined.

"because you pointed it at me last time you had it," I replied.

He threw me a dirty look.

"I've already told you I wouldn't have shot you,"

"and I don't believe you- forgive me, but I don't,"

"John…" Sherlock looked horrified, "you don't know me very well if you think I'd shoot you,"

I chuckled.

"I'm joking, Sherlock,"

His horror turned immediately to a glare.

"Can I _please_ have my revolver?" he tried.

"what are you going to do with it exactly?" I asked with narrowed eyes.

Almost too quickly to see, his eyes flickered to the wall. To the smiley face.

_Almost._

"no," I said immediately.

"I. am. bored," he moaned.

" Lestrade will be back soon," I tried to say soothingly.

"yes but that's soon, not now!" he cried, Curling up like a child on the sofa.

"Sherlock, for Gods Sake!" I said warily, "you cant keep doing this!"

"I can't just turn it off it's who I am," he complained.

"oh Christ," I said exasperated, "we need to come to a solution,"

"choose something exciting, please," he muttered. I resisted the urge to throw something at him with great difficulty.

"we could play a game- cards or something,"

I saw his blue eyes appear over the edge of the cushion.

"cluedo?" he suggested shyly.

"no!" I yelled before I could stop myself, "absolutely not! I'm never playing that with you again!"

His face disappeared behind the cushion again.

"why not?"

"because it's impossible for the victim to have killed himself, we've been through this once already!" I ranted. He twisted around slightly.

"I promise I'll play by the rules," he begged.

"Sherlock," I said warily, pinching the bridge of my nose, "it is _impossible_ for you to play by any rules!"

"hmph," he mumbled.

"how about a card game?" I suggested lightly, steering him away from Cluedo.

"like what?" he snapped.

"like- umm- black jack?" I tried. He gave me a blank expression.

"what's that?"

My mouth dropped open.

"your not serious?" I gasped.

"what?" he snapped self- consciously.

"you don't know what black jack is?" I exclaimed.

"no, I don't usually concern myself with tedious games, John," he sighed.

"right, we are playing black jack," I decided, not letting him get away with it. I rose from my seat to the chest of drawers by the window, while Sherlock mumbled under his breath like a moody teenager. I searched the draws, finally finding a pack in the very bottom draw. It was old and battered, the red card box worn and scuffed around the edges. It smelt musty, like it had been in a damp coat pocket for years. I cleared some room, with difficulty, on the table, and pulled him over. He dragged his feet on the floor in petulant reluctance, and dropped himself heavily in the chair opposite me.

Slowly, I talked him through the rules. after half an hour, his attention drifted and I realised my words were falling on deaf ears.

"ok," I sighed, finally, "I teach you while playing instead,"

I dealt the cards and we spent a long time playing a rather arduous game of black jack, where Sherlock seemed to find difficulty in understanding and enjoying it.

"is this what normal people do?" he asked monotonously, "no wonder people are so boring,"

I bit back my retort.

"you just don't like it because you lost," I told him. His face became completely blank. His nostrils flared slightly.

"right," he said frostily, getting up from his chair. I watched him stride across the room.

"Sherlock-," I called, exasperated. The resounding slam of his bedroom door was the only response I got. I had to resist the urge to scream aloud. He really was like a moody child sometimes. I cleared up the cards and nicked a biscuit from the tray, munching for something to take my mind of it. His laptop sat on the coffee table open, his email still up from when Lestrade had emailed him.

In some sort of vengeful malevolence against him, I was compelled by the lure of his emails. I went swiftly to the laptop.

_A/n: uh oh John is nosing about! I hope you enjoyed it and I look forward to any reviews I may get! x_


	18. Chapter 18 The Emails

Chapter 18- the emails

_A/n: thanking everyone who reviewed followed and favourited me yesterday I'm really, really glad you're enjoying it! _

_So this chapter some people may find a little angsty. It is also in this chapter, where the warnings of reference to drug use and anorexia come in. _

_I really hope you enjoy it and please review if you have the time! Xxx _

JW

He'd been emailing Mycroft a lot, I saw, during those 5 months he'd been away. Intrigued, I clicked on the last email sent. There was a small chain of messages chain of messages.

MYCROFT: where are you?

SHERLOCK: where do you think?

MYCROFT: you can't keep doing this

SHERLOCK: you can't stop me

MYCROFT: I know it's hard for you

SHERLOCK: no you don't. You don't know anything. How can you? You've never had to stand and watch a friend try and kill himself.

MYCROFT: I'm sorry I did what I did. You know that if you'd shouted out to him, you would have died.

SHERLOCK: I DON'T CARE! John is my life, Mycroft, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep standing outside his flat and watching him from a distance. I need to tell him. I need him.

MYCROFT: what did he do to you?

SHERLOCK: he gave me a life.

MYCROFT: he's given you a heart by the sound of it.

SHERLOCK: oh pee off Mycroft

MYCROFT: I found the drugs you know. I'm not an idiot. You haven't had a habit in 5 years, don't start now.

SHERLOCK: I said pee off.

MYCROFT: you haven't eaten in weeks. You haven't been anorexic for years either. Is this all because of John?

MYCROFT: answer Sherlock.

MYCROFT: come home. We can arrange a meeting with John.

SHERLOCK: do you know what he's just put on his blog?

SHERLOCK: _'Sherlock why did you have to go? '_

How the hell am I supposed to stand and deal with that?

MYCROFT: Sherlock...

SHERLOCK: I hate you

SH

I pushed open my door, feeling slightly ashamed of my behaviour earlier.

"Listen John I'm-"

I paused, horrified, to find John in tears.

John.

_Was in tears!_

John never cried- much.

"John!" I gasped, aghast, "What's wrong? Is it my behaviour? I'm-"

The wind was knocked out of me when John suddenly hugged me. Tightly.

Anxiously, I patted him on the back, not sure what else to do.

"Oh God," shuddered John, "Oh God oh God oh God,"

"What is it?" I repeated.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," He mumbled, "I'm so sorry. I- I- I- "he lapsed into fits of tears, his eyes red and swollen.

"What the-"

Suddenly, my eyes zeroed in on the open laptop. With a heavy heart I saw that the email open was the argument I'd had with Mycroft, on the same day I'd revealed myself to John.

_John had read the emails. _

I straightened up, a terrible hollow feeling inside me. He'd read everything.

I slammed down the lid of the laptop, my entire body tingling with fury.

"You read my emails," I managed through clenched teeth.

"I- I-," he stammered.

"Why the hell did you read my emails?" I demanded.

"I'm sorry," John croaked, through sniffles.

I turned away from him because I was too disgusted to look at him. I felt incredibly exposed. More so than I had in a long time. As if my privacy had been stripped. John had read the emails, and he'd seen how much he meant to me. He'd seen my drug problem and my anorexia problem. And he knew it was because of him.

"Sherlock?" John was behind me, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know how much my attempted su- I affected you… I didn't mean to- I didn't kno- I didn't mean to read – I'm sorry,"

I couldn't speak to him. I was too angry. I knew that if I spoke I would upset him and I didn't want to, no matter how angry I was. I stared sightlessly at the wall. I heard him blow his nose.

"Were you really anorexic?" he whispered.

I shut my eyes, squeezing them tightly.

"Oh God Sherlock," John sounded terrible, "oh god, oh god, oh god,"

"Don't," I forced, my voice coming out as a hoarse whisper, "just don't..."

"I'm so sorry, for everything, I- I-"

"Please don't,"

"No I was going to say that-"

I began to walk away from him. I wanted to escape. I couldn't face him just yet. I had to be alone.

"Sherlock just listen!" he yelled suddenly.

I paused in my bedroom door frame.

"I did those things because I couldn't bare life without you," he said, his voice trembling, "I'm not ashamed to say it Sherlock. I'm only human. I missed you so much. I've told you this already,"

I forced back the tears that threatened to collapse my resolve. What was wrong with me?

"I- I need some time alone," I sighed finally, "don't come and check on me,"

And then I closed the door once more in John's face.

_A/n: I look forward to any reviews I may get xxx _


	19. Chapter 19 Picking up Pieces

Chapter 19- Picking up Pieces

_A/n: I'm so sorry about the delay! I honestly didn't have any time over the last few days because it was my mom's birthday and my friend's birthday and I had work and college and… you get the idea :D _

_Anyway I really hope you enjoy this next chapter!_

_Please enjoy and review if you have the time or patience xxx _

JW

Of course Lestrade had to come just 10 minutes after Sherlock disappeared into his room, which meant the tension and guilt in the room was as solid and as painful as a knife, twisting in our hearts.

I felt absolutely terrible.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered why the hell I decided to nose about his emails. It hadn't brought me satisfaction at all. It had just caused both of us pain, and I wished that I could take it back. The horrendous sadness I felt was the closest I had come to depression in days. I couldn't believe Sherlock cared about me so much that he'd become anorexic after my suicide attempt.

Sherlock meanwhile, looked more distant than he had in days. He refused to look at me and spoke only when he needed to.

To be honest, I felt sorry for Lestrade, caught in the middle of the knife- like atmosphere like a fish in a trap.

_He must feel the tension_; I thought glumly, I bet the whole street could.

Lestrade had the picture. It was the one from the hall I'd picked up first. In the daylight, I could see the details more clearly. The red and white top and the creases on her jeans. I realised that her eyes were green, not blue like I'd first thought. But the whole thing seemed unimportant at the moment.

"Have you searched for her identity?" Sherlock questioned monotonously. Lestrade nodded, " 'course,"

Sherlock brandished it at him.

"Well?"

"Her name is Emily Jones, aged 25, living currently in Oxford,"

"Oxford," mused Sherlock, "why oxford? Why so far away?"

Lestrade shrugged.

I cleared my throat quietly.

"Perhaps she- I dunno- left him?"

"Yes but he wouldn't keep pictures up like that! He would keep them - people do sentiment- but not up. It would cause too many questions," this was the first time Sherlock had answered my question directly; for a moment, it was as if everything had been forgotten.

But then he turned away shortly.

"There must be link- perhaps she's so far away to give herself a good alibi without trying…" he muttered.

"What about the knife in the vase?" Lestrade asked quizzically.

"Yes, that man must have something to do with it too," Sherlock replied, "and your sister being framed has something to do with it too. That was deliberate,"

He rubbed his face warily.

"Question is…how?" he muttered.

Lestrade went over to glance at the picture once more.

"They look so happy together," he observed quietly, "and there are so many of them, all over the walls. She must have meant a lot to him,"

Sherlock stood up.

"Can you bring her in Lestrade?" he asked, "we need to question her- and the man- with his fingerprints on the knife,"

"Yes, my team is already on it. It may be slower though because we are trying to keep away from Donovan and Anderson," he looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock grunted irritably.

"Both of them?" he scowled.

"Yep. They're both getting suspicious. I've been trying to throw them off as much as I can- oh John?"

I looked up.

"If Donovan calls you asking if I've been calling you say yes, that's the story I gave her. I've been helping you with something's, alright?" he said nervously.

"Yeah, sure," I said numbly, knowing that I probably _would_ get a call if Lestrade had resorted to making up an alibi. I cursed Donovan under my breath for being such a nosy cow.

"Great," he stood up to, sauntering over to the door, "I'll email you when we've brought her in,"

"That would be much appreciated, thank you," Sherlock said rather impatiently, as if determined to get him out of the way.

For one awkward moment, Lestrade lingered in the door way, looking from me to Sherlock as if watching a tennis rally. Then, he nodded at us, and hurried out.

Then the moment got worse. The atmosphere solidified like ice and I found that I couldn't look at him. I was too ashamed. Too scared to find out what emotion was on his face.

But then he spoke.

"Listen, John, I'm sorry," he sighed, "I overreacted- I just didn't mean for you to find out about my- problems. I thought they might upset you- which turned out to be right," he spoke so formally. As if talking to a stranger.

I hated it.

"No," I replied in a small voice, "_I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have looked at your emails. They're private. I feel like such a b********* for doing that," the bitterness and fury I felt at myself suddenly came through. I buried my face in my hands.

"That's enough," he said firmly, "if I had been honest with you from the start, none of this would have happened!"

"Don't blame yourself!" I spat, "it's my fault!"

"Shut up John," he gave me a look then, "I forgive you,"

A wave of relief crash over me. I felt myself starting to brim over again and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Right. Well that's- that's good- thank you," I blinked a couple of times just to make sure my eyes were dry. I saw a small smile touch his lips.

"Sentiment," he remarked quietly. I found myself grinning back.

"Oh John," he sighed, "you really never had any idea how much your friendship means to me, even now,"

I stare at the ground, finding it hard to look into his serious eyes.

"Neither did you," I reply finally, in a subdued voice.

He pressed his fingers together as if in prayer. And touched them to his lips.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke again.

"I think I owe you some answers, correct?"

"Umm yeah," unsure, I found that his steady waiting gaze made me more nervous.

"Ok," he began, looking just as nervous himself. He lay down in his favourite position on the couch and continued, "Mycroft wasn't all correct, I did have a – craving- for drugs after your suicide attempt as a sort of- escape. I thought about using them- but didn't," his tone turned subtly more serious, "_I promise _that I didn't use them- I knew that if you were there, you would be so angry- that's what stopped me,"

He paused, closed his eyes.

"He _was_ right about the anorexia problem, though I don't think anorexia is the right word. Yes I didn't eat, but it wasn't because I was unhappy with my appearance. I didn't eat because I wanted to get a reaction out of Mycroft and force him to include you. Eventually, it worked. And I'm eating again now," he stopped, regarded me warily, "so don't worry, if you are,"

"I'm not- I'm- I'm," I couldn't seem to find my tongue, so I gave up.

"Mycroft and I had a fair few fights during those months, I don't really hate him. Well, I say that," his contemptuous expression was more than enough.

I snorted at him.

"Any more questions?" he asked calmly.

"You read my blog," I didn't know if I meant it as a question or a statement but either way he'd seen my last comment.

"Of course I read your blog," he scoffed, "not that you posted anything until a few days ago, you know that comment nearly ripped me apart,"

"I'm sorry," I sighed, "I was particularly depressed that day,"

"I know, it was in your eyes," he responded immediately, "turned out that was the thing that swayed Mycroft in the end, so I guess I should thank you,"

I attempted a weak smile, and felt the tension in my chest loosen a little. I was so glad we had sorted it out. I'd hated it.

I looked down at the floor, and duly noted that the floor was in dire need of a vacuum. The black soot Sherlock had unearthed had settled into the carpet and it looked terrible. Then there were the crinkled books and pages, the upturned chairs. I rubbed my temple with a drawn out sigh.

"We need to tidy up," I gestured to the room. It looked like a bomb had gone off.

"Why?" he groaned, face impassive.

"Because it's an absolute tip," I said through gritted teeth, irritated by his response.

"But-"

"Sherlock!" I groaned.

I leant down and picked up a handful of sorry looking, crumpled book pages. They were beyond repair, poor things, so I resorted to tossing them in the bin, with a sigh.

Reluctantly, his eyes scanned the room.

"I guess you're right," he admitted.

And so he started to help me.

And I think it was this- such a normal activity- that finally cleared all the tension in the room.

The empty cups and plates were washed up and put back in the cupboard. The table was wiped down and set straight; the chairs were picked up and pushed neatly under the table. The books were put back on the shelf, the detached pages thrown in the bin.

Finally, when the room looked remotely more dignified, I got the vacuum out, hoovering up the soot until the inside of the vacuum was an inky black, but the floor less so.

It looked better. Much better. Capable of being lived in.

"Thank you," I said gratefully to Sherlock.

He shrugged in response.

"It was my mess," he said quietly.

I smiled thankfully at him and ambled to the kitchen, my mind fixed on a cup of tea.

God I could murder some tea.

I flicked the kettle on and pulled down two mugs.

"Want some tea?" I called from over my shoulder. He was in his thinking position again. On the sofa.

"Please," was his only response. I smiled, already filling his cup. The steam spiralled into the air, twisting its own pattern. I watched it as I stirred in the milk and sugar.

I carried both cups to the coffee table, pleased that I could walk in a straight line and not have to pick my way through the mess. I held the cup out to him. He took it without looking at me.

"Thank you,"

I smiled.

We were silent for a while, in which I could tell he was mulling something over. I sighed and leaned back in my chair.

"Mrs Hudson usually does the cleaning," said Sherlock quietly, finally.

"Why don't you-" I began.

"No,"

"Why don't-"

"No,"

"For god's sake!" I slammed my tea down, "just listen for once!"

His eyes widened at my outburst. I in- hailed sharply.

"Why don't you tell Mrs Hudson you're alive?" I finished finally.

He shot me a look.

"No,"

"Why?"

"Because I've already told too many people," he retorted frostily. I glared at him.

"You owe her, Sherlock,"

"I don't owe her anything," he hissed.

"She still thinks you're dead!" I exclaimed, "How can you deal with that?"

He ignored me, taking a gulp of his tea. I groaned in frustration.

"You jumped off a building for her for Christ sake!" I threw my hands up in the air as I said it. He gave me a long sideways stare.

"Mycroft said I couldn't tell anyone, we've already broken in once, I'm not doing it again,"

I swore at him.

"That's just a pathetic excuse!" I seethed, "since when did you give a damn about anything Mycroft tell you?"

Again he ignored me. I resisted the urge to punch him with great difficultly.

"Ok," I tried to take a deep, calming breath, and closed my eyes, "ok, ignore me then,"

He flashed me a glare.

" I think you should get the door," he said coolly.

I blinked, confused.

"What?"

"The doorbell will go in approximately 5 seconds," he said sharply.

_A/n: meh, bit of a long chapter, but I hope this keeps you happy after 2 days of nothing, which I'm really sorry for! _

_I hope their make-up was satisfactory- I just can't keep them angry at each other for too long, it would kill me!_

_Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed it and I look forward to any reviews I may get xxx _


	20. Chapter 20 Donovan

Chapter 20- Donovan

_A/n: thank you to Exact Estimate for your lovely review yesterday I'm really sorry that I didn't reply, I was very busy! _

_I really, really hope you are all enjoying it so far Ican't believe I have got to chapter 20! Thank you for everyone's support I really don't think I could have continued without it!_

_Here is the next chapter, I really hope you all enjoy it!1_

_Please review if you have time! Xxx _

JW

I could have sworn that exactly 5 seconds later, in which I just gaped at him like a gold fish, the doorbell rang.

He smirked.

"Who is it?" I wondered. It couldn't be Lestrade. It was too soon.

He threw me his best contemptuous look, before he answered.

"Donovan of course, Lestrade warned us,"

Realisation hit me, and I jumped to my feet.

"Stay hidden," I called, as I hurried out the room. I took the stairs two at a time, and took a deep breath, before opening the door to face Donovan.

"Good evening, Dr Watson," she said briskly, holding out her hand.

I put on my best confused expression as I took it.

"You're - Sergeant- Donovan, right?" I asked, crinkling my brow.

"Yes," her smile was fake, "I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions,"

"Is anything wrong?" I asked gravely. She shook her head, making her fuzzy curls bounce.

"I came to ask you if D.I. Lestrade has been around recently?" she said, a hint of impatience in her tone.

"Yeah, he's been helping me- do some- things," I trailed to a mumble, looking down.

_Keep the act going John._

Her expression cleared slightly at my words.

"Really?" she said sceptically, "what like?"

I stared at her disbelievingly. She really was very nosy. I felt a strong surge of hate towards her. Especially after what she did to Sherlock.

I cleared my throat, an idea popping into my head.

"Umm, some of Sher-His old things, you know," I made my voice break at the end, extremely pleased that it turned out.

I knew that I would have been answering truthfully if Sherlock actually was dead. But he wasn't. He was upstairs. I had to resist the urge start grinning like an idiot and let my expression become intensely sad instead. She was starting to get uncomfortable now. And embarrassed.

I felt some sort of vindictive pleasure at seeing this.

"Is there anything in particular you wanted?" I asked, slightly more coldly than I intended. Her expression became frosty. Shed heard it.

"Not really, I better leave you then," she sneered slightly. I returned it with a glare and continued to glare as she got into her car. I stood in the doorway until her car rounded the corner, where I released a long breath of relief I hadn't even realised I'd been holding. I shut the door and mounted the stairs.

"Thank god for that," I sighed as I entered the room.

Only to find it empty.

"Sherlock?" I called, puzzled by his absence. I knew that sometimes he had his _alone_ time, but something about this silence made the hairs on the back if my neck stand up.

I scanned the room, and noticed that his bedroom door way ajar.

"Sherlock?" I repeated. I went over to the door, where it stood looking slightly menacing in my growing unease.

I pushed it fully open. It groaned and creaked on its hinges.

I saw him lying on his bed, face turned away from me.

At first I was relieved.

"There you are," I sighed, "I was starting t-"

But then I saw the needle in his arm.

And my blood ran cold…

_A/n: omg what have i done? This is where the case starts to get a little more interesting… (oops I just gave a little away o_o)_

_Anyway I really hope you enjoyed it and please review if you have the time xxx _


	21. Chapter 21 Fear

Chapter 21- Fear

_A/n: thank you to Exact Estimate and Starlit Revenge for your lovely comments I really, really appreciate it!_

_I also want to apologise for the really unacceptable shortness of the last chapter, I hope this one makes up for it!_

_Please read, enjoy and review if you have time xxx_

JW

"Oh god,"

The room spun dizzyingly as I stumbled into the room, heart throbbing.

I was at his side.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god,"

All I saw in my mind was my dad's overdose. His body lying motionless on the floor. The needle pushed straight through his translucent skin into his bloodstream.

"No,"

My fumbling fingers went straight to the needle, wrenching it out of his arm and dropping it to the floor like I was letting go of a blood-stained knife. A small bead of blood welled up at the site. My vision seemed to swim as my whole body shivered.

"Sherlock!" I yelled.

I twisted him around to face me. His head lolled to one side, face blank and unresponsive. Eyes closed.

Fear grasped at my heart in a vicious freezing fist. My knees buckled, and I sank beside him… In my mind I saw visions of him lying on the pavement, his hair matted and blood soaked.

"Oh god, oh god, oh Jesus, no," my voice cracked, I shook his limp body desperately.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock," I pleaded.

My mind kept flashing back to my dad lying dead in my old house, Sherlock lying dead on the pavement, the blood, the needle, lots of blood…

It was as if all my nightmares were flooding back to haunt me as I clutched at him. I felt my eyes sting. My heart pound. His face was so blank.

"God no,"

My shaking fingers went to his neck, desperately trying to find I pulse. I felt ill. I tried not to remember the last time I'd done this.

And found nothing.

_He can't be dead. Not now. God please._

I waited my breathing harsh.

I couldn't feel anything.

"No! Sherlock please!" I felt a sob catch in my throat, "please,"

I collapsed on him, gasping for breath.

But then I felt it.

A tiny fluttering pulse.

The relief that crashed over me nearly knocked me down. I blew out a long trembling breath.

"Sherlock," I shook him gently.

The pulse was getting stronger.

Now that my blind panic was over, I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was starting to come alive under my hands. I heard a small moan escape his lips.

"Sherlock," I breathed.

Finally, his eyes fluttered open, at first unfocused and blank, but finally settling on my face.

"John?" he croaked hoarsely.

"Oh god, Sherlock," I collapsed onto him again, tears streaming down my face.

"What happened?" he mumbled, voice slightly slurred.

Suddenly my relief was gone. Washed away and replaced by a burning fury. I was suddenly so angry that I wanted to kill him then and there with my bare hands.

"Well you should bloody well know you bloody b******!" I yelled, "Why the hell did you do that to me Sherlock? I thought- I thought- you b*****!"

Suddenly his hand was at my mouth, silencing me with shock.

"What. Happened?" he said, his voice stronger this time, though still slurred.

"I came in here to find this-" I pointed furiously at the needle, "bloody thing in your arm! Why the hell would you do that? I thought you were clean!"

He sat up, and stared at it incredulously.

"What the HELL!" he exclaimed suddenly, making me jump. He stared at me, and I thought I saw fear, and hurt flash in his eyes.

"John," he gasped, looking desperate, "you must believe me. I. Didn't. Do. This." his jaw was clenched.

But I was shaking with suppressed fury.

"Don't give me that, don't you bloody dare," I hissed.

"I swear," he pleaded.

I laughed bitterly to try and hide my hurt at his betrayal.

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock; it was in your bloody arm!"

His face was a mask, but this time, his eyes betrayed how hurt he was at my disbelief.

"I didn't, John," he begged, "I haven't- wouldn't- no,"

For a moment, he looked like a small, frightened child. But my fury overwhelmed my sympathy. I grabbed his arm, twisting it so his palm faced outwards and the injection site was clearly visible. I showed it to him viciously.

"How can you possibly say that _that_ wasn't you? It was in your bloody arm!"

He stared at his arm as if it was something alien.

Then, a scientist's curiosity took over his expression and he peered at it closely.

"I didn't John," he said softly, "and I'm willing to bet that this-" he indicated to the small amount of gooey substance collected at the bottom of the syringe, "isn't any ordinary recreation drug,"

His eyes found mine, like grey-blue flints if ice and he gently peeled my fingers off his arm, all the while watching my face.

It took me a while to comprehend his movement, and finally, I managed to stand up shakily. My legs felt like jelly.

As soon as I stood up, he jumped up from the bed.

His knees buckled and he collapsed.

"Christ!" he swore as I managed to catch him just before his head collided with the bedside cabinet.

"I don't think you can stand on your own just yet," I said through clenched teeth, wrapping my right arm around his waist and slinging his left on over my shoulders.

"I'm fine!" he said haughtily, though he let me haul him out of the bedroom anyway. His feet dragged across the floor and his hand was clenched rather tightly on my shoulder. It felt like I was back in the war and I was with a wounded soldier.

I went to set him down in his favourite chair.

"No!" he gasped, speech still slurred, "no! I need to test-"

"No, you need to rest," I said firmly, "you can't work like that!"

"But-" he objected.

"No!" I said angrily. I watched him give in and slump down into the pillows, eyes closed, face slack. My mind immediately flashed back again to him on the bed, and then on the pavement. I felt the vomit rise in my throat and a hot flush passes my face. I needed water.

I went hurriedly to the sink; filled a clean glass with the cool liquid.

It flooded my mouth and I took a huge gulp. It made me feel a little better, though my hand still trembled with the aftermath of shock. I pressed the cold, smooth, glass to my suddenly clammy forehead and closed my eyes. Forced myself to breathe deeply.

Sherlock was fine. He was alive and well in the armchair.

He wasn't dead.

I repeated this to myself again and again with the glass against my head.

I made my way slowly back to my armchair and plumped up my favourite Union Jack pillow before sinking into it, putting the glass on the side table with a big sigh.

I glanced across at Sherlock.

He was fast asleep- for once. It was a shame that one of the only times he did sleep was when he was drugged. The sleep was drug induced.

It reminded me a little of when he'd been drugged by Irene Adler.

But Irene Adler was dead.

Did I really believe that someone else had drugged him? That he hadn't plunged it into his arm himself?

I wanted to. I really did.

But I'd read those emails. How did I know that he hadn't lied to me when he said he didn't actually use?

I stared at his sleeping face, relaxed and without his mask. It was only in his sleep that his guard was fully down and he looked- vulnerable. Really vulnerable. And so peaceful, his forehead smoothed out from its usual lines, as smooth as marble.

I couldn't help but smile. It had been a close call.

_A/n: I really hope it was ok! Please tell me if it was ok if you can! _

_Please review if you have the time! X _


	22. Chapter 22 Disorientation

Chapter 22- Disorientation

_A/n: just a little warning, this chapter is quite short so I'm really sorry for that! Also thank you, thank you to Exact Estimate and Mona Ogg for being amazing and reviewing me the other day! I also want to thank UntoldStories97, Smileyjo14 and Eyl for following me! Thank you, thank you, thank you! _

_I really hope you are all enjoying it and having fun reading it, you all mean so much to me! _

_Anyway, please read and I hope you enjoy it xxx_

SH

I woke up feeling terribly disorientated and was immediately greeted with a terrible headache. It felt as if my brain was on fire.

Burning, burning, burning.

I groaned and pinched my eyes warily with my thumb and forefinger.

It was then that I remembered.

I remembered waking up feeling sluggish and confused. I remembered John's furious face. I remembered seeing the syringe on the floor. My panic. My confusion.

_John…_

I raised my head and found John's chair empty. I scanned the room, also to find it vacant. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, feeling strangely empty in the silence.

"John?" I called out, wincing as it came out as a hoarse croak. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"John?"

A wonderfully familiar, concerned face peered around the corner of the kitchen.

"Sherlock," he said with a frown, "everything ok?"

I had to pause again, momentarily confused and unsure at how much John's face had affected me. Then I forced a smile.

"Yeah, I just wondered where you were," I said shortly, turning away to prove my indifference.

"Do you want tea?" he asked, undeterred, like he always was.

I nodded gratefully.

"Biscuits?"

I smiled at him. Genuinely this time. He came to my chair shortly afterwards and extended a steaming mug. I took it silently, with a nod.

I then noticed a small, white packet in my peripheral vision. I focused on it.

It was a packet of ibuprofen.

Surprised, I glanced up at John.

"You were groaning a lot," He explained, "I'm guessing you have a headache?"

Had I really? I had no recollection at all.

"You're right," I admitted after a while, taking the packet from him, "thank you,"

He shrugged, looking concerned.

I swallowed three tablets dry and watched his frown deepen.

"You know you just overdosed?" he said sternly.

I just stared at him sceptically.

"Me John?" I said clinically.

He sighed warily, "I suppose,"

My lips twitched at his response.

He handed me the biscuits. They were my favourite- oatie ones. I stared at them in surprise; I was sure that the only ones we had were those soft, disgusting digestives. John laughed.

"You were out for hours, Sherlock, I decided to get some milk from the store- in disguise of course- and I spotted those. I thought you'd appreciate it when you came around,"

"Thank you," I said unsurely. He smiled, crinkling his eyes up.

I nibbled on the edge of the biscuit and took a small sip of tea. It was still hot and it burnt my mouth slightly.

But it was perfect as usual. John always did it perfectly.

I was starting to feel better now. Even the headache was going away, though I noticed that John had removed the packet from my sight to make sure I didn't take more.

I suddenly remembered what I had wanted to do.

I needed to test the drug, and prove to John that I was telling the truth. That I did not take that drug.

I tried to think back:

_The doorbell rang, and John looked at me with raised eyebrows. Trying not to appear smug, I told him that it was obviously Donovan, wondering how he couldn't have got that. He jumped up, slightly panicky and told me to stay hidden. I rolled my eyes at his back, and hauled myself up from the sofa, with the intention of going to my room. I opened the door and slipped in quietly, hoping not to make much noise._

_I turned around._

_Everything went black…_

I shook my head slightly. The whole thing didn't make sense, which angered me immensely.

The only way to find out more was to test the drug. To find out what it was.

"The drug," I began, rising from my chair, "I need to test it,"

"Do you really need to do it now?" he sighed, "it's quite late,"

I nodded and strode to the kitchen.

I opened up the syringe, swabbed some if the liquid and smeared it carefully on to the slide. I fixed a smaller slide on top and placed it carefully under my microscope. I first had to test its molecular structure…

_A/n: I really hope its ok! Please review if you have the time I would love to hear from you xxx_


	23. Chapter 23 The Science of Deduction

Chapter 23- The Science of Deduction 

_A/n: I just want to thank one-blue-eye, mvignal and dragonhold for reviewing and trueromantic333 for following me the other day! I am really so grateful!_

_Anyway, I'm really hoping this is ok and that you enjoy it!_

_Please have fun! X _

JW

I watched in what must have been silent awe as his long, skeletal fingers twisted the dials on the microscope, with the delicacy and finesse only a scientist would have. It was amazing to watch. And at least now the drug seemed to have worn off, thank God.

I had realised afterwards that perhaps giving him ibuprofen may not have been the best idea in the world, especially after recovering from the drug. The doctor in me cursed for being so stupid.

Then he started mumbling to himself, causing me to loose my train of thought. Theories, equations, structures, all tumbled from his lips, seemingly streaming into one. Most of them were like a foreign language to me.

Half way through, he just froze, sitting silent and unresponsive on the kitchen stool for quite a long time, where I stood, arms crossed, watching, before bending down again to continue. It was completely silent apart from his mumbling and the scratching of his pen, scrawling notes onto a spare newspaper.

I watched him because part of me was desperate to find a solution that didn't involve Sherlock plunging the thing into his arm himself. Anything that would give me proof- that would be enough for me.

Finally, he straightened up.

"Of course," he said softly, eyes closed.

I waited patiently for him to explain, but realised quite soon that it was not going to happen.

"Of course, what?" I asked finally.

He glanced up at me.

"This is the same drug that The Woman gave me,"

"You think it's The Woman?" I said sceptically.

He nodded mutely.

I stared at him, before shaking my head.

"that's not possible, she's-" I began, but caught myself just in time. I realised that I'd told Sherlock that she'd got herself under a Witness Protection Scheme in America, when actually she'd been beheaded months ago. I hadn't told him the truth to stop him from coming as close to heartbreak as Sherlock could manage, like he had last time she had 'died'.

Now, it made sense that he thought that.

And then I remembered suddenly that that had been my first thought too. How similar it was, but shook it off quickly.

I smiled sympathetically at him, pressing my tongue against the inside of my cheek before I plucked up the courage to tell him the truth at last. I thought it would be nice to finally tell him, seeing as I didn't have chance before he… jumped.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I sighed, "but- I lied- she's dead,"

However, he took me completely and utterly by surprise- and started grinning, far too smugly for my liking, instead of looking sad or shocked or surprised or blank or any emotion I had actually expected.

Instead, I was the one who ended up starting at him, head cocked to one side quizzically.

"That's what you think," he said boastfully.

It took me a while to register his words.

"Sorry, what do you mean? I lied to you," I said quietly.

"Well, I played along," he said, now grinning even more widely.

I stared at him.

"I don't understand," I admitted lamely.

He threw me his biggest _are you stupid? _Look and suddenly, it clicked.

I felt chills run down my spine like frozen fingers.

"You stopped her from getting killed didn't you?" I whispered.

He didn't say anything.

I shook my head with a sarcastic laugh. I couldn't believe it. I actually couldn't believe it he'd stopped her from dying.

"She…really got to you didn't she?" I said wondrously.

He ignored that too, bent over his work again.

I licked my suddenly incredibly dry lips and sighed, deciding to change the subject.

"So why did she do it- if she did it?" I asked instead.

He pressed his fingers together and touched them to his lips.

"Well, the thing is what's in this flat that's of interest to her? The Woman only does things if she's getting something out of it, hence the drugging, but something's here she wants,"

"But what do we have?" I questioned quietly.

He closed his eyes tightly, pressing on his lips with his fingers.

"Something, something… must be," he muttered furiously to himself, between his fingers.

Then, his eyes cleared and he lowered his fingers with quiet, "oh,"

He turned to me, face alight with excitement.

"OH!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

I had completely lost him now.

"What?" I spluttered.

The light faded slightly when he realised I wasn't catching on. He stared at me.

"What do you mean what? It's obvious isn't it?"

I just looked at him bleakly. Finally he let out a breezy laugh.

"Oh John, I forgot how small your brain was," he said wondrously.

I didn't know whether he was deliberately being obnoxious or not. I crossed my arms.

"What's she after?" I asked, ignoring his crack about my brain.

"Oh come on John!" he cried exasperatedly, "think! What item do we have that she might want? I asked you for it remember?"

_Oh for God's sake! What's wrong with a straight answer?_

It was the squash ball thing all over again!

"Can't you just put me out of my misery," I said warily, pinching the bridge of my nose to hold back my frustration.

He shot me an irritated glare.

"Her phone!" he cried, with the air of someone explaining that one plus one equals two.

I stared at him.

I remembered now. He'd asked to have her camera phone.

"The…camera phone? You think she's after her phone?" I asked dubiously. It didn't add up to me

"I know she's after it," he countered, beginning to pace agitatedly. I followed his movements with my eyes.

"But why?" I spluttered, confused, "it's been wiped. She must know that it's been wiped!"

This statement rewarded me with yet another sympathetic smile. I bristled slightly.

"She told us that the camera phone was her life, John, she probably had her own personal secrets hidden in there too,"

"So what?"

"That phone is her life! She won't care if it's blank, she will want it back because it's part of her! Sentiment," he finished with a subtle snarl.

I still couldn't grip it. Why would she want a blank phone? I shook my head in confusion. I suppose if I mentioned that I would be shot daggers again. Or get looked at like an injured bird.

"But- why now? It's been months!"

"Oh The Woman isn't one to act rashly- on impulse. She plans. I willing to bet she spent those months planning her every move,"

I shook my head slightly. I didn't want to remember those months if I could help it.

He ruffled up his hair and then he snapped his arms to his sides.

"We need data,"

He ran to his bedroom, where he scanned every corner in the room, leaning in close, analysing the surfaces, the bed, the carpet. Then, he moved to the front room, doing the same. He was looking for evidence.

Meanwhile, I was getting attacked by viscous thoughts.

I absolutely hated the idea of Irene Adler being in the flat. It made my blood run cold as ice. I despised her. The way she had played with Sherlock, how her fake death had affected him. It had all been a game. Moriarty's game. My jaw tightened involuntarily. In that moment, I realised that if she met me again, the first thing she'd get was a good hard punch. I wished that it would break her nose. I hoped that it would hurt. She deserved it for all that grief.

"She's only searched my room," Sherlock snorted, dragging me from my vindictive thoughts, "she does flatter herself,"

I stared at him.

"So where is it then?" I asked him.

"Hidden in plain sight- I doubt she had time to search in here-she only had a small window after all- you were downstairs,"

He went to the window, to the chest of drawers where I'd found the cards and kept our old case files. The small draw by the right window was the one he immediately went to, pulling open the draw and searching it.

And pulled out Irene Adler's camera phone.

"She didn't find it then," I said unnecessarily, earning a glare.

"Obviously not, but when she attacks again she may do," he said seriously, tossing it up and down in his right hand.

I froze.

"Wait, you think she's going to try again?" I clarified.

"Of course she will. This is the time where she is most likely to be desperate. To act rashly,"

"How long have we got then?" I breathed.

"I wouldn't say long, most likely tomorrow at a shot,"

Tomorrow?

I couldn't bear the thought of him getting drugged again. In fact, I couldn't bear the thought of Irene Adler getting anywhere near him again. It made my stomach churn uncomfortably.

So I set my chin resolutely and folded my arms.

"I'm staying with you then, to make sure you're not drugged again,"

He swatted me away as if I was an irritating fly.

"No, no, don't be stupid- I know you can't help it but really- I don't need any company,"

I glared at him.

"Oh right, so you can easily stop her from drugging you again like you did that last two times," I answered sarcastically.

He upturned his nose at me, regarding me coldly.

"I'm not letting her get to you again," I continued forcefully, "we can both sleep in here and that way, you're safe, and we can confront her together,"

"ridiculous- totally ridiculous," he said through gritted teeth.

But he didn't bring it up again. That was when I knew I had won that round, no matter how small.

I knew that perhaps it was a little extreme, but the thought of Irene Adler drugging him again made me feel sick.

I didn't want to leave him alone. Not at the moment.

The rest of the afternoon passed very slowly. The hours dragging by, seemingly slowing down whenever I clock-watched, which I did most of the time.

Sherlock was quiet. Very quiet. In fact, he only spoke one word to me the whole afternoon and that was it. He sat broodingly in his armchair, in his thinking pose, looking very much like a breathing statue. It looked very unlikely that he was going to move.

I bimbled around the flat like a lost ghost, wondering, wondering, wondering. I made tea twice, read the newspaper, read a book, or tried to, my eyes seemed to stay fixed at one point on the page, and even snoozed for a bit when 9.00 turned.

When I woke up, Sherlock still hadn't moved. I glanced at the clock again. It was 10.30.

How the hell did he manage to stay in the same position for so long?

I tried to drift off again, but such proved impossible.

I didn't want to make any more tea. The thought made me groan.

I didn't want to just sit there either!

I just couldn't stop fidgeting, desperately trying to find something to do.

And that's how I came about trying to read music.

Don't ask me why, I don't know. The thing was, I was so bored, that even _I _felt like shooting the smiling face on the wall. It was driving me mad.

So trying for the first time in 25 years to read music seemed like a quieter and much more peaceful option.

I picked up Sherlock's handwritten sheets from the stand by the window, and took them back to my chair, where I sat and tried to decipher the scrawled dots, smeared slightly by the inky pen he'd used to write it. The sheet had no name, but he'd scrawled his signature at the bottom. It was a composition.

I settled for the first line. It looked very simple to read and also to play.

Having learned to play the clarinet at school, I was familiar, or at least used to be familiar, with the music terminology. I didn't think it would be that hard to remember them.

This proved to be correct.

It took me less than 15 minutes to remember that the first note on the sheet was F#, and I was gradually getting more confident as the knowledge came flooding back.

I could even remember how the notes sounded. I grinned to myself, and bent over to pursue my newly resurfaced talent.

And found it being ripped out of my hands faster than a rocket launching into space.

Shock caused my mind to jam up and it took me a while to realise that Sherlock had moved.

He'd actually_ moved_ to take the music away from me.

I looked up at him questioningly.

"What the-" was all I managed.

"This is private!" he snapped, voice quiet from lack of talking.

I blinked.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to keep the confusion and suspicion from my voice. His eyes were as sharp as razor blades, piercing mine, "I didn't think you'd mind," I finished calmly, before pressing my tongue against my teeth nervously.

His brows furrowed, eyebrows knitting together.

"I didn't think you could read music," he said accusingly.

A half smile tugged at my lips as I realised that I'd never told him about my old talent.

"Oh, well, I used to play clarinet at school," I told him.

He stared at me in complete and utter surprise and bemusement.

I laughed, startling him slightly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked haughtily. I shrugged.

"I didn't think it was important, I haven't played one in years," I said, rather more wistfully than I'd expected.

I hadn't been serious about it. I didn't join a band or practise much, but I'd enjoyed it while it lasted. I'd liked the sound it made, the feeling of running my fingers up and down the pipe, the holes and the smooth, silvery keys.

He squinted at me.

"You miss it," he deduced, with raised eyebrows.

I was surprised myself to find that it was true.

Sherlock glanced at the music sheet.

"So you were reading my music?" he sounded completely confused and rather blank too.

"I wanted something to do," I shrugged.

"Could you read it?" his brow furrowed again.

"I didn't get very far before you took it from me," I said, "I'm quite a slow reader,"

His expression cleared and he put the sheets protectively back on to the stand, quiet again. Though it was a different sort of quiet. A pondering quiet.

It made me sleepy.

"Right, so if we are sleeping in here, you can have the sofa and I'll be on the floor," I said calmly, to stop him from dwelling too much on the music thing.

He groaned.

"Oh, not this again, I'm fine! I can look after myself!" he snapped.

I ignored him, and set about cleaning some space in the middle of the room. It didn't

Take much. All I had to do was push the coffee table over to the fireplace and move the armchairs slightly. I sighed, wondering how I could made a comfortable bed on the floor.

Then, I had an idea.

_A/n: I love how John is so loyal to Sherlock, its just o.o_

_I'm not too sure about this chapter..._

_Anyway please let me know how I'm getting on, how you're getting on, and if you're enjoying it, which I really hope you are! Review if you have time and I really hope this chapter was worth reading! X _


	24. Chapter 24 Honesty

Chapter 24- Honesty

_A/n: thank you to Exact Estimate for reviewing the other day I'm sorry I didn't reply I was at college._

_Anyway, I really, really hope you all enjoy this chapter and that you all like the story so far! I know I promised you all that I wouldn't worry but seriously, I'm writing this story for you guys, so if you don't like it, I will worry big time! It's silly isn't it?_

_Anyway please have fun reading this chapter xxx_

JW

"Could you help me bring my mattress down?" I asked him. He sighed slightly.

"If you insist,"

It seemed to take him colossal effort for him to get up and follow me up the stairs to my bedroom. He walked around to the back of the room to pick up the far end as I pulled off the duvet and pillows and took the other end.

After much scuffling and many fallings over, we finally managed to get it through the door.

My bedroom door that is.

I glanced over my shoulder, muscles burning slightly with the effort of holding it up, and saw the steps looming below me.

I swore.

"Ah," Sherlock's face had appeared from over the edge of the mattress.

Then suddenly, he re-appeared altogether. He'd put his side of the mattress down.

"This is ridiculous," he repeated, "I don't need-"

"Shut up," I growled. I wasn't in the mood. Especially as my rather drastic 'brilliant plan' was failing completely.

He sighed, and then he began to twist his side of the mattress. His movement caused my side to jolt violently.

Teetering on the edge of the step as I was, I had to grab the wall lamp to stop myself from falling.

"Jesus!" I yelled breathlessly, my heart pounding with the shock that had coursed through me. My head snapped up to Sherlock's face.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed at his continued struggle with the mattress.

He paused only to fly imaginary daggers at me.

"What the hell do you think? The thinner it is, the easier it will be to move!" he snapped.

"Oh!" I regained my balance and helped him, finally understanding.

Half an hour later, we had got the mattress downstairs into the front room.

I dropped it as soon as I could and stretched my unbearably stiff arms with a moan.

"Thanks," I said it him.

He had laced his fingers and stretched his arms above his head.

"I hope it's worth it now," he grumbled, "I still think it's stupid,"

"I don't care if it's stupid; I don't trust that bloody woman!" I said, equally as irritated, "I thought you were dead Sherlock, again! I thought I'd lost you again!"

He froze, his eyes, wide with shock, found my earnest ones.

"You thought I was dead?" he repeated quietly.

"For a moment, you had no pulse, it scared the life out of me," I couldn't stop the tremor in my voice and immediately felt bad for it. I gritted my teeth.

Sherlock's face contorted slightly with what might have been pain, or guilt, which in turn, surprised me. His emotion was rarely revealed and when it did, it was usually only a flash, in his eyes or his tone. But today, it was powerful. I looked down and swallowed guiltily.

"But you're not," I said, voice full of false cheer, "So it's fine,"

He remained totally silent and unresponsive, so I finished my makeshift bed, dragging my pillows and duvet down and arranging it. It looked quite comfortable to be honest and I was proud of it.

Sherlock had gone back to the sofa, sinking into it and fitting it perfectly, as if it had been made for him. He lay there with his head on the arm, staring at the ceiling, lips slightly parted.

He was exhaling loudly, his breathing the only sound in the room.

I smiled. I couldn't help it. It was nice to be reminded now and again that he was really there. That I had woken up from the 5 month nightmare.

I clambered onto my bed, after flicking off the lights and groping in the suddenly pitch black room. It was incredible how much noise my duvet sheet made. It always rustled, but in the deafening silence of the room, the noise seemed amplified a great deal. I blushed and thanked god that he couldn't see me.

I lay my head down on the pillow, feeling only a little sleepy. The day's events had left me in a daze of different emotions.

It didn't seem like our friendship was the same as before. Perhaps because I still had nightmares, lingering every night even though Sherlock was there, or perhaps because we both knew each other's stories of what happened in those wretched 5 months.

My crushing depression, suicide attempts and complete seclusion from the world.

His struggle with drugs, anorexia, and the pain of having to watch me trying to kill myself and sink lower into depression.

Though we never spoke of it, I could always sense the unspoken words, the guilt, the pain as we looked at each other. I hated it.

And I hated the fact that if Sherlock had died today, the last thing I had done was betray his trust.

"Sherlock?" I called out, breaking the silence.

An exasperated sigh followed my words.

"Yes, John?" said the completely flat, uninterested, bored response.

I sighed and swallowed painfully.

"I'm… I'm so sorry Sherlock," I whispered, feeling my throat tighten, and a painful lump form there.

His incoherent grumbling stopped immediately and the silence that followed was even heavier than before, if that was possible.

"What for?" he whispers back, though the strain in his voice told me that he did know.

"For looking at the emails, for arguing with you, for… for everything,"

"John," he sighed finally, voice cracking, "God John you don't need to… why are you… ," he paused, sounding furious with himself.

"Is this all because of the drug thing? Because you thought I was dead?" he croaked.

I nodded, and then felt stupid, realising that he couldn't see me. I cleared my throat.

"I just didn't have time to truly say sorry,"

"You've said sorry already, and I told you I forgive you, please don't feel bad,"

I was stunned into silence.

"It's just, you're my friend, and it seems like the last… the last two times I've thought you were dead, all I've done before hand is shout- I-I-I called you a machine before you jumped… it still- it still haunts me…" oh god where had that come from? I hadn't expected that.

But it was true. Sometimes I still regretted it.

"I don't think you're a machine Sherlock… not really…. I promise," I said in a shaky voice.

Sherlock sighed.

"I know John, I may grumble, but don't doubt for a second that you are and always will be, my best friend, and nothing you've ever said or done will change that,"

My cheeks felt wet. Slightly confused, I lightly touched my cheek. That's when I realised that I was crying.

I couldn't believe that I was so emotional.

And I thought that I heard tears in his voice too.

In that moment, I felt the happiest I had all day. As if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

"And you're mine," I said quietly.

Needless to say neither of us got much sleep that night. But the air had got distinctly lighter.

We hadn't said a great deal and we'd said it all before but it meant a lot to me. And I think Sherlock felt it too.

_A/n: meh, not too sure about this chapter, but I couldn't really get it any better, so let me know what you think ;)_

_Oh my goodness, guess what? This Saturday, I AM GOING TO SEE BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH LIVE! I'm so excited!_

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll post the next one really soon! Xxx _


	25. Chapter 25 A Backstreet

Chapter 25- A Backstreet

_A/n: I just want to say thank you to Mvignal, Midnight Lupus and the guest who reviewed me the other day, it made my day!_

_And I also want to say that i'm really, really sorry about the delay! The WiFi in my house wasn't working and so I couldn't post this chapter until today! I feel so terrible, i'm so sorry!_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter (finally)! I hope you enjoy it and that you all know I'm writing this for you guys! _

_Have fun! Xxx _

GL

Pressed against the back wall of a grimy back street, I held my men back. They all looked extremely apprehensive, some of them nervously supporting guns. A shiver of movement rippled through them. None of us knew what to expect.

I glanced at Donovan, who was clutching her walkie talkie as if it were a life line, ready to call in back up if things got pretty ugly. She threw me her apprehensive look. She didn't really know what she was doing here, because, of course, I couldn't tell her everything, but she was my second in command so she was the best one to be with.

It was deathly silent. Almost too silent, as the shadows crept up around us and the sun went ever lower. I had lost track a while ago of the time.

_Stay here_, I motioned to her.

She nodded, seemingly chewing on her lip.

I decided in a split second to take a risk and, holding my breath, I stuck my head around the edge of the wall, where we were lined up.

The backstreet opened up from a narrow passage into a large open space, which had been transformed into what looked like a homeless persons' den. Boxed in by blackened walls, it was a dead end, from the looks of it. Ragged, filthy blankets lay bundled by the left wall, the debris of a scavenged meal or two littered the ground. A small fire had been set up in the middle, still flickering weakly. It was deserted. But had not been for long.

We'd just missed her.

"damn," I grumbled quietly, still hesitant to break the silence.

I had been so sure that we were going to find her tonight. Our elusive lady. The victim's girlfriend. Sherlock had thought she was important, so I had to take his word for it.

We'd been searching all day and most of the night too, and when Wensley had got some decisive leads, I had immediately decided to lead a group of my most trusted men to help find her.

She had been very difficult to track. And the man. The man who's finger prints were over the knife, more so.

But obviously, our lead had been a little too late. It looked to me like they'd been here, but left in a hurry.

But what was she doing away from Oxford? When we had searched for her location, all our information pointed to Oxford. And yet our new leads pointed to very local areas of London, finally leading us here.

But then another pressing question was, what was she doing sleeping rough?

In any case, we weren't going to find the answers here. The place was completely deserted. She had obviously scarpered.

I sighed and turned to Donovan.

"nothing," I said, warily, " it's empty, looks like she cleared out a while ago,"

"uhh," she pulled a face; turned to the men, "alright, let's get outta here," she waved them down the street, crocodile fashion, and threw one last glance at me. She looked relieved- though none of us had known what to expect.

"you coming?" she asked vaguely.

I shrugged. She turned away, and I was on my own.

I just wished that I could find her soon. The whole thing with my sister and the case was putting me on edge. And it was all bloody Sherlock's idea. Apparently _Emily Jones _was very important to the case.

Not for the first time, I wished that I had Sherlock with me. He would find all the information we needed and probably find Emily Jones all in one night.

But I didn't. and I couldn't, and he would never agree to it anyway.

God how I hated him sometimes, the awkward b******.

I sighed again and took one last glance.

The fire was almost dead now, burning embers on charred wood. It was still desolate, and I wasn't in any hurry, so I decided to snoop around a bit. Look for clues.

It was dark now, the sky was a dark, inky blue and even larger shadows had collected in the alley, clinging like cobwebs to the walls and floor.

I took out my torch and flicked it on, scanning the scene and accentuating the shadows more. The beam fell on the dirty bundle in the corner and I made my way over, wondering if we could find her DNA on some of them, kicking at the litter that scattered across the Tarmac.

Well, at least I had thought it was a bundle of blankets.

As i moved the top blanket, a dark, ragged burgundy one, with my toe, it scuffed against something solid, making a muffled thumping sound.

I froze, confused, and nudged it again.

Another thump as my foot connected with the solid thing.

Blankets shouldn't make that sound.

Cautiously, I leant down further to have a closer look, gingerly lifting the blankets from the area where the thump had sounded.

Something pale and definitely not clothing was illuminated by my shaky torch light; I stumbled back in alarm as I suddenly realised what it was.

It was a body.

The body of a man that had been covered by blankets.

"shit,"

I gripped the torch between my teeth; with fumbling fingers, I tugged aside the rest of the blankets, revealing the rest of the body, curled up in a foetus-like position, clothes torn and baggy on the shrunken form. I didn't have to look any further to know that the poor sod was clearly dead.

I pulled out my walkie-talkie and raised it to my lips.

"Donovan?" I called into it. There was a slight crackle down the line before she responded.

"yes sir?"

"get down here immediately, I've found something. Bring some of our guys,"

"right away sir,"

Almost immediately, the sound of crashing footsteps echoed down the alley, bouncing off the wet stone walls like light off a mirror. Donovan's flushed face came into view, followed by a couple of our men, anxiously clutching guns.

Her eyes found the body I now knelt beside and her faced paled slightly.

"oh God,"

She hurried over, eyes scanning the body, the translucent skin, faint blue lips and wide, glassy eyes.

"murder?" she questioned.

I nodded gravely, indicating to the neck, "strangulation by the looks of it I think,"

"how long has it been here?" she wondered, as our guys began to gently move the body.

I shrugged, "dunno, I need a medic to find the details, perhaps we could get it to Barts?"

Donovan pursed her lips dubiously.

"I suppose, shall I arrange to get it down there?"

"please,"

I followed Donovan back down the alley to the police cars, feeling slightly better. The true reason I wanted to get it back to Barts quickly was really because I wanted Sherlock to take a look. He was the one helping me most on the case after all. Plus Dr Watson was quite good at analysing bodies. Plus Molly could help us.

I suppose I could try and persuade them to meet me at Barts.

I pulled out my phone and composed a message to Sherlock.

Try to get down to Barts quickly. Found a body. Woman may be connected to it. Need your help,

GL

There, sounded interesting enough, plus he would feel smug now that I had admitted that I needed him. Maybe that would sway him.

"we've got him in," Donovan told me.

"sure, sure," i muttered, not really listening. I took a couple of pictures of the alley and even went back to take pictures of the den. Sherlock would need evidence.

"who do you think did it?" Donovan mused quietly, more to herself than to me.

"I'm taking a bet at our woman," I replied with a sigh, anyway, "I'm just worried at how many more bodies are we going to find before we catch up with her?"

_A/n: what is happening? I honestly didn't have this in mind when I wrote it but ah well, I can definitely work with it xD what do you guys think? _

_I hope you enjoyed it and the next chapter will be up soon, I promise! Any reviews would be really welcome! Xxx _


	26. Chapter 26 Examine

Chapter 26- Examine

_A/n: I'm really sorry about the delay again! I went to the Benedict Cumberbatch talk on Saturday, and OMG he was amazing! I got his autograph as well! OMG OMG OMG!_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter, I really hope its ok and that you enjoy it! Xxx _

JW

Breakfast was a quiet affair. I made jam on toast and some tea for both of us and we sat formally at the table, opposite each other and ate in silence, not really meeting each other's eyes. The only noises in the flat that morning were the rustling of the newspaper and Sherlock's occasional heavy sighs.

I was absolutely shattered.

I didn't have much sleep at all. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether I _had_ slept at all. I remembered staring at the dark ceiling, listing to Sherlock's breathing. I remembered tossing and turning under the blankets. I remembered getting up to get some water.

Nether the less, we both had defining dark circles around our eyes.

And neither of us could think of what to say.

The tension was unbearable.

So when I say thank God for wonderful Lestrade, I really, really mean it.

Wonderful Lestrade with his perfect, wonderful distraction.

The dead, homeless man.

Apparently, Sherlock had got a text about it last night and had decided to ignore it.

Though I suppose that wasn't really that unnatural for him.

"We found him in a backstreet near here actually," said Lestrade conversationally, "we'd been looking for leads on our woman. It was like some sort of den in there, the fire was alight, just starting to burn out when we got there. It hadn't been abandoned long,"

"So I'm guessing she just killed the guy and left?" I wondered, frowning.

"That seems the most probable solution," he sighed.

"I think your right," agreed Sherlock, squinting at the small phone screen, lying face up on the table between us, where Lestrade had captured a picture of the 'den', "the pictures crappy though,"

Lestrade clucked furiously at him.

"Well if you had bloody come when I texted you, you wouldn't of had to complain!" he snapped.

"Oh and you expect me to drop everything and come running do you?" Sherlock scoffed. I looked at him disapprovingly.

"Well that's what you expect me to do," spat Lestrade. He looked completely worn out.

Sherlock snorted, "pl-ea-se," he said, drawing out the word into many syllables.

Uh! Why did he have to be like this? He knew Lestrade was right. In fact, we all knew Lestrade was right.

Lestrade's phone rang and I saw my opportunity.

From where I still sat opposite him, I was too far away to elbow him without being conspicuous, so instead, I aimed a vicious kick at him from under the table.

He winced as my foot connected with his shin.

"Ouch!" he hissed furiously, glaring at me.

"Apologise," I hissed back, out of the corner of my mouth, as Lestrade headed out to talk the call.

He suddenly looked confused.

"Why?"

I sighed, and shook my head. Seriously, one day, I was giving him lessons on manners.

Meanwhile, Lestrade had come back, and was now looking at me expectantly.

"Can you come?"

His question threw me off guard.

"What? Where?" I stammered.

"To Bart's. To look at the body,"

I exchanged a glance with Sherlock, whose jaw was set and his face being deliberately blank. He wasn't even making eye contact with me.

I sucked my teeth furiously, glaring at him.

_You want to play like that? Fine! I'll make the decision then!_

So I nodded.

"Yeah, we'll go,"

Sherlock suddenly snapped out of it, his head shooting up, eyes flashing.

"No we won't!" he said immediately.

I glared at him again.

"Yes we will,"

"Thanks," said Lestrade, looking relieved. He threw me a small wink, and I realised that he was stopping Sherlock from saying any more.

I was glad to say that, for once, it worked. Sherlock looked like he had just swallowed a lemon, but otherwise remained silent.

"I'll wait in the car, so you can get ready," Lestrade said, looking slightly anxious. Again, he winked at me and hurried out.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Sherlock snapped.

"Damn John," he grumbled, "why do you do that?"

"To stop you from getting bored that's why," I said truthfully. I was sick of it.

He rolled his eyes, pursing his lips slightly.

"Let's just get this tedious business over with," he mumbled, pushing away from the table, causing the legs of the chair to scrape across the floor loudly.

I got up too, pulling on my favourite grey jumper to keep warm.

"Keep up John, don't want to keep Lestrade waiting," Sherlock called from halfway down the stairs. I walked quickly to catch up with him.

Once again, we both climbed into the back of Lestrade's car.

St Bart's was a lot busier in the grey, gloomy morning sun as than it had been last time we came. And still the sight of it caused a terrible piercing pain in my chest.

The car park was crammed. Lestrade circled once and then turned out to park on the street corner just down the road. It was better in a way as it was very close to the back doors we went through last time.

Once again, somehow, Molly was roped into it.

"We put him in a private room for you," she said timidly, as Lestrade nodded to her. She lead us through a pair of double doors and down a desolate, white corridor, lined with large window panels. The glare of the sun on the white forced me to squint slightly.

Through another door we went, and then down another corridor, until finally, we were in a small mortuary room. There were only 3 metal examination tables, upon one lay our body, zipped up in a bag.

"Who is he?" Sherlock asked sharply, as Molly lead us over, unzipping the bag down to the torso. This revealed quite a lot of bad bruising around the neck. Very bad bruising.

As I lean tower to take a closer look, I heard Lestrade reply,

"No idea, there's no I.D, no driver's license, no passport; no criminal records as far as we can tell. I'm clueless,"

"Checked the DNA yet?" Sherlock fired off. Out came his little microscope.

"I have a group running it,"

"Good, tell me the results, when you have them,"

"Of course,"

I picked up his hand delicately, twisting it slightly back and forth. Then I leant in closer, and gently lifted up the eyelid, revealing a pale glassy eye, reflecting the rectangular lights.

"What do you say John?" Sherlock asked me quietly. I glanced up at him, and then straightened up.

"Strangulation, definitely, quite brutal actually,"

He pressed his lips together.

"So this is definitely Emily Jones' doing?" he asked Lestrade, staring into the distance. Wow, I could almost see his brains working.

Lestrade shrugged.

"Dunno,"

My head snapped up in surprise.

"You don't know?" I echoed dubiously.

He shook his head.

"There's no solid evidence to as she did it, but I think she did,"

Sherlock groaned, "It's stupid to jump to conclusions, Lestrade," he snapped, "You have to do better than this! I need data!"

"I'm doing my best!" Lestrade bristled, "if you just came out of bloody hiding, it would be so much easier!"

"I. Can't," Sherlock's jaw was set.

"Boys please, not again," I sighed warily. I touched Sherlock's arm gently, pulling him away from his advancing paces toward Lestrade. He flinched at the contact, but moved away. He looked extremely irritated by the lack of information. Lestrade, however, looked completely worn out. And completely fed up.

"We are done now Molly," Sherlock said stiffly, turning towards the exit. In a flash, he was gone, leaving me and Lestrade and Molly standing in awkward silence.

I sighed.

Why did he always leave me to clear up the mess he made? All I could think of doing was just standing like an idiot, hands in my pockets and grinning.

"Jesus," Lestrade said finally, running a hand through his hair.

"He's just bored," I told him reassuringly, knowing full well that he was going to be a lot worse back at the flat. Christ he was going to be terrible. Thank God I'd taken the gun off him. There would have been no wall left.

"I just hope he knows that I have half the division out looking for her," he said irritably, "and that other guy,"

"No luck on him yet then?" I sighed. He shook his head.

"None at all, it's getting bloody ridiculous! This is the only lead we've had since we started," he grimaced, straightening his jacket. Dark shadows hung under his eyes and he looked as tired as I felt. I nodded. Molly zipped the bag back up mutely.

Time to chase after Sherlock.

When I finally made up the stairs to the flat, I was not surprised at all to find Sherlock in his customary position on the sofa.

I was surprised, however to find that Mycroft was sitting comfortably in my arm chair, right hand elegantly twisting the handle of his black umbrella.

For some reason, this really annoyed me. Why the hell did he always have his umbrella with him? It wasn't even raining today!

"Mycroft?" I spluttered, raising my eyebrows, "what's going on?"

He regarded me only with a slight nod of the head, only slightly turned towards me, eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

"Good morning John," he said mildly, "so sorry to intrude…"

"No you're not," snapped Sherlock suddenly.

Mycroft ignored him.

"…to intrude on you and Sherlock, there are just a few things I need to sort out," he finished smoothly, twiddling the handle, so that the umbrella spun on its point.

I blinked.

"Oh?" I sat in Sherlock's chair, across from him, and set my chin on my hands, "and what's that?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at me in a maddeningly condescending way and Sherlock snorted. I bristled.

"What?" I snapped, glaring at them both.

"The drug incident of course," Mycroft said finally, turning away before I could object to the unspoken 'idiot' remark I heard in his tone.

"Mycroft deems himself worthy of poking his nose into every single thing that happens in my life," said Sherlock sardonically, still staring at the ceiling. I grinned.

"Well, I don't think that I was the only one who worried about you in that moment, Sherlock," Mycroft said icily.

There was a rather awkward silence, in which I felt myself redden slightly. I think we both knew that he was referring to me. I glanced up at Sherlock, and saw his face looking incredibly stony.

"Shut up Mycroft," he said finally.

"Did you find out what drug was used?" Mycroft asked vaguely, completely ignoring the last comment. Sherlock sighed.

"Obviously,"

"What was it?"

"The same sort The Woman used on me," he answered without moving his head. I watched him, feeling a little like I was being locked out of the conversation. Though, I suppose, there was nothing new there. Not where the two Holmes brothers were concerned.

"Ahh," Mycroft nodded, twiddling his umbrella a little more. My eyes fixed on it, and I had the strongest urge to knock it out of his hand, "any idea who did it?"

"A couple,"

"Which are?"

"Why should I tell you?" he spat, turning to give his big brother a side way, venomous glare.

Mycroft's face remained impassive.

"Because, dear brother, I have seen the video footage and can tell you who it was,"

My mouth dropped at the same time Sherlock sat bolt upright, suddenly to attention.

"What?" I gasped, staring at him with wide eyes, "you know who drugged him?"

"Never mind that, why the hell do you have a camera in my bedroom?" Sherlock whined, sounding very much like a child having a tantrum.

"Really brother, I would have thought you knew," Mycroft sighed condescendingly, shaking his head, before turning to me, "well not yet, but I can easily find out for you," he half smiled, as Sherlock spluttered his outrage.

"That would be really helpful actually," I said calmly, ignoring Sherlock, "at least then we can try and find a reason why,"

"Exactly," Mycroft nodded again, "why did it happen? What motif did the person have to do it?"

"Dull," Sherlock grunted quietly, burying his head in his hands, seemingly distracted by something.

Mycroft sighed, and then went to stand.

"well, I better be off, I have a rather pressing meeting to attend in approximately 45 minutes, and Anthea is waiting outside for me," he unnecessarily brushes of his suit and shakes my hand. I didn't really register the action, mind half stunned.

"I will let you know, of course, when I have seen the footage," he said to me. And then he leaves, the door swinging behind him, and Sherlock groans as soon as he is out of earshot.

"God, I hate him," he mumbles to himself bitterly.

"No you don't," I counteract, knowing all too well the strains of sibling rivalry.

Sherlock sighed, casting me a dark glance. I ignored it.

_A/n: again, so sorry for the delay! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I will (hopefully) post the next one really soon! Xxx _


	27. Chapter 27 Bored

Chapter 27- Bored

_A/n: Thank you so much to Exact Estimate and xSommerRegen for reviewing the other day, and BakingwithEzio and spentacularspencer for following you are the best!_

_I hope everyone reading this story knows that I write this story for you and your enjoyment so what you think of it is greatly important to me! In fact, thank you everyone who reads this story!_

_Anyway here is the next chapter! I really hope you like it! Xxx _

SH

I was bored.

God I was bored.

I could feel my mind racing on and on uncontrollably, tearing itself into pieces.

Yet here I was, stuck in the bloody flat, trapped between the 4 hateful walls with nothing to distract me. I felt like a wild animal in a tiny cage.

God. God. God!

I wanted a distraction.

I wanted to smoke.

I wanted to shoot the wall to smithereens.

Ahhhhhhhhh!

Finally all my pent up energy and frustration burst out of me.

"Goddammit John!" I roared, making the poor man jump out of his skin. He'd been dozing in his favourite armchair for the past hour.

What was he bloody doing dozing?

He had no right to doze when I needed a distraction!

"Wh- what?" he slurred sleepily.

I gazed at him in desperation.

"I'm bored John!" I moaned.

After a huge yawn, he looked over to me.

"Jesus Sherlock," he gasped, "what have you done to the flat?"

I glanced idly at the bomb site I'd created, completely unabashed.

Well what the hell did he expect me to do? Just sit there and let myself self-destruct? Explode internally like a super- nova?

I suppose perhaps throwing books at the smiley face instead of bullets was a bit much, but really, it was the books or the mugs and John wouldn't want the mugs to get smashed.

John groaned.

"Sherlock, you need to stop this! Seriously! I know you're bored, but you can't keep wrecking the place!"

He looked completely worn out.

"But I'm bored John," I sighed.

"I can see that!" he pinched the bridge of his nose, and blew out a long breath.

He sat like that for what seemed like an age. I hated it. I couldn't stand it.

"John!" I cried out, pulling at my hair viscously. The pain seemed to help. The pain distracted me.

Bored. Bored. Bored!

"Go and have some tea, Sherlock," John sighed, "I'm shattered,"

I couldn't find the heart to wait for the kettle to boil.

Instead, I flopped onto the sofa like a rag doll, pressing my face into the pillows.

"I'm bored John," I mumbled into the soft fabric.

Uhh I needed something to do. God I needed a case. God I couldn't just lie here!

"John..."

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John was beginning to lose his patience. His anger surprised me, but it provided a distraction, a beautiful distraction.

"I'm bored!" I muttered.

"Yes you've made that perfectly clear!" he snapped, "but can you at least try to keep the bloody flat in one piece?"

He stared around the room again, gaping slightly at the mess.

"I can't believe this!" he groaned, head in his hands, "and we only cleaned this up the other day!"

What an odd statement to make! I stared at him blankly.

"So?" I said with a shrug.

He raised his head to glare at me.

"so, Sherlock, that means that I have to clean up your mess again!" he said furiously.

I grimaced slightly, "I'll help,"

He stared at me, eyes wide, an expression of complete and utter disbelief etched upon his face.

Then, he snorted sarcastically.

"Oh, _you _are going to help _me _to clean up _your _mess, are you? I should be the one bloody helping you! What do you think I am? Your servant? A bloody cleaner?" he was starting to get really worked up, I could see that. And his tiredness was making him more unreasonable.

"Look, I didn't mean that!" I said angrily, a little hurt that he thought of me like that.

"Well, what did you mean then?" he shouted back, "you obviously _expect _me to clean up! So what did you mean?"

I ignored him, currently thinking about a way to try and calm him down. I saw no reason to answer such a heated, biased question.

John, however, refused to let it go.

"Well?" he probed, "what did you mean?"

I locked eye contact with him, holding his angry gaze. His eyes were very emotional. Those brown orbs could portray every emotion so strongly, that sometimes I could feel it. I could tell instantly if he was upset, or angry, or happy, or excited. Today, his eyes showed wariness, more than anger. He looked very tired and fed up.

I knew exactly how to appease that.

"Would you like some tea?" I asked quietly.

He scowled.

"You... Are a bloody suck up, you know that?" John said irritably.

The corner of my mouth lifted slightly.

"Shall I take that as a no?"

"No," he said, all too quickly.

"Thought so,"

I went to the kitchen, and tried to make the best cup of tea I could. I didn't like making tea. I usually let John do it. It was strange doing it myself.

I even threw some biscuits on the plate. John would like that.

I set the plate beside him, and watched his eyebrows rise.

"Ok, what do you want?" he grumbled.

"Nothing," I shrugged, sitting down.

Surprisingly, I felt better now. Not as bored. I smiled, and watched him sip his tea. He caught me watching.

"What?"

"Is it ok?" I asked.

He nodded.

I grinned slightly, "good,"

_A/n: I'm in such a grateful mood today, I just have to say thank you again to everyone! I hope this chapter was ok and that it didn't disappoint everyone! A review or two would be really appreciated!_


	28. Chapter 28 New Leads

Chapter 28- New Leads

_A/n: sorry about the delay, again! And I'm also sorry for that message that I posted yesterday, I just needed to reply to a guests question and so it won't happen again. As you can see, said message has been deleted. _

_Anyway, here is the next chapter, thank you so much to xsommerRegen, mvignal, Lynn Kim, Exact Estimate and Angelcake Jr for all reviewing me the other day and Paws the Kitsune Kit, awelch, Sherlocked9412 and AnimeLoverEmily for following and favouriting! I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter! Xxx _

GL

"Sir!"

The pounding of feet, hard against the laminate floor, was heard before I saw the wild silhouette. They pushed through the glass door violently, sending it swinging in a wide ark.

"Sir, we found something!"

I lounged in my chair, legs crossed on my desk, in my favourite position, and stared at him.

"What is it?"

"Joe- he..." he stopped, gasping for breath. Obviously he'd run the whole way, "he's been monitoring the security cameras for days- he said we've finally found something! He said for you to come, right away sir!"

"Ok, ok, I'm coming," I sighed, getting up. I was shattered, but to be honest, I was really relieved. It had been almost a whole week since we'd discovered the dead man, and I had been starting to lose hope. That, and lose my sanity. Sherlock has been accosting me almost every day, through text mainly. I'd been forced to go around the flat more than I could care to remember too. Last id seen him, John had looked completely worn out; and I'd could only imagine what the frenzied, hyperactive b***** was like back at their flat when I left.

Poor John.

The young messenger grinned slightly, and started off down the long corridor, going through the main office. It was buzzing with life, phones everywhere calling out their cheerful rhythms, the hum of people talking, and the tapping chorus of computer keys. The messenger pushed his way through into the corridor, then proceeded to go through another door. A rush of cold air met me as I entered, and I saw a couple of men sitting beside a computer.

"What's happening then?" I asked, sauntering over to them, and bracing my hands on the desk, leaning in.

"Sir, I found a few recent similarities between the hide out we found a few days ago, and found these, look-,"

He thrust a few print- outs into my hands, and I squinted slightly, eyeing the pictures.

The first one was a picture of a dark alleyway, very similar to the one where we found the dead man. The date in the bottom left hand corner told me this was taken on Tuesday.

I flicked to the next one. Again, a similar sort of hideout, set up with the fire in the middle. The date read Wednesday. The next picture turned out the same, only indoors, by the windows, letting shafts of golden lights paint the floor gold. This was taken Thursday.

"Excellent!" I said enthusiastically, "Where we're these taken from?"

"That's the best part sir," said Joe, "we've been plotting the locations of the dens on a map of the area, look-,"

I took the map, noting the small red crosses that Joe had scrawled on its pages. They were all in such close range to us, it was ridiculous.

"Brilliant!" I gasped, thinking that things were finally starting to get better now, "now I finally have some evidence, I can show Sh-" I caught myself just in time, horrified with myself. I had just been about to say Sherlock's name, "uhh"

I saw everyone in the room staring at me, and realised it was too late. I also realised that Donovan had decided to enter the room just in time to hear my slip, for Christ sake, and her eyes were narrowing into slits.

"I- I mean that I can try and estimate where she will hide out next," I said with a false smile, "sorry, slip of the tongue," I pushed my tongue against my teeth awkwardly, irritated with myself. _Lame!_ I told myself, _lame, lame, lame!"_

I folded the map and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

"Good work, man," I said, clapping him on the back appreciatively, "keep it up,"

"Thank you sir," Joe said, looking flattered.

I stacked the pictures neatly and carried them out with me, ignoring the many pairs of eyes that followed me all the way down the corridor.

I knew that Sherlock would be able to find Emily Jones from these pictures. He probably could find her right now if I went and showed it him.

But I needed to be careful. Donovan would suspect more than ever that something was going on now, so I needed to play it safe. I would have to wait. Maybe I could text him?

No, if he got a text like that in his manic state, he'd burst through the doors without a second thought!

No, I needed to wait, and sneak out to the flat when everyone least expected it.

Maybe night? Late night, or early morning?

I decided on early morning. Sherlock wouldn't mind if it meant him getting a case to work on. Plus, I could go straight from my flat, where Donovan couldn't spy on me.

Yes, that's definitely what I could do.

JW

It was 3.30 in the morning when Lestrade turned up on our doorstep, sopping wet and shivering in the torrential downpour we were experiencing, but grinning like a madman.

You heard me right- 3.30. In the bloody morning!

Having finally managed to get 5 seconds rest from the chaos that was currently Sherlock, I was none too pleased to be woken from my nap by the doorbell.

And when I say chaos, I really mean _total _chaos.

Things had been thrown, destroyed, set alight, chucked down the stairs and even cryogenically frozen in Sherlock's attempt of staying occupied, and in the result of particularly dark moods.

I was absolutely crying out for a rest and my body was aching with fatigue. Sherlock had been very tough to look after, and I hadn't had a minutes sleep.

It didn't help that there was no sight nor sound of The Woman, which put Sherlock, if it was possible, in an even darker mood. Plus Mycroft hadn't got back to us yet.

So I suppose I should have been happy that Lestrade provided a distraction for Sherlock.

But Lestrade turned up at _3.30 _for crying out loud.

I hauled myself up out of the armchair with a groan and picked my way through the mess, which extended out of the doorway and scattered down almost every step. With a twinge of annoyance, I realised that the small ripped book on the second step was actually my notebook, but decided to ignore it, someone was waiting. I'd deal with that later.

"Please say this is important!" I grumbled, when I saw Lestrade's face.

He adopted a serious expression.

"Very, I've been given new leads! Sherlock needs to look at them,"

I made a noise halfway between a sigh of relief and a groan of exasperation.

"Jesus Christ Lestrade, it's 3.30 in the bloody morning!" I said irritably, though letting him through anyway, "you're as bad as Sherlock!"

"I'm sorry, it's just, Donovan is getting really suspicious, I couldn't risk leaving with her there,"

"Why don't you fire her then?" said a low, flat, monotonous voice drifting from up the stairs.

I sighed, rolling my eyes.

"Don't roll your eyes John," shot the instantaneous reply. I glared at the stairs.

"You better come up before I throttle him," I said to Lestrade in a low voice, ushering him up the stairs before me.

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," said the flat voice again.

"Shut up!" I roared at the door. I was at the end of my tether. One more thing and I swear I would go over the edge.

Lestrade twisted around on the stairs, trailing a ridiculously large about of water from his plastered jeans, which pooled around the edges of the stairs, and eyed me sympathetically.

"Sorry mate," he said apologetically.

"It's not you who has to apologise," I huffed.

We entered the room to the room I'd had to live in for the past few days. A complete and utter bomb site. In fact, in my experience, one bomb couldn't of done this much damage. More like an army of bombs, an army of _nuclear _bombs.

I won't go into detail of the mess.

Lestrade was polite enough not to mention anything about the pigsty that was currently our home. Instead, he turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock was lying sprawled, face down, on the sofa, his hair a mess of unruly curls. He waved at us like we were irritating flies.

"What is it?" came his mumbled voice, "it's important I presume?"

"A couple of my men have found some new leads-" Lestrade began.

"What leads?" he interrupted.

"Umm- pictures from security cameras-,"

"Showing what?" he interrupted again.

"For want of a better word- hideouts, very similar to the one where we found the body-"

"Anything new on the body?" again, he cut through Lestrade's speech.

"Sherlock..." I warned quietly.

"DNA results came up positive. It's definitely Emily Jones, and the man's name is Anthony James," Lestrade said, triumphantly.

This aroused Sherlock from his pillow sulk. He turned his head to face Lestrade and scowled at him, eyes flashing.

"Why haven't you told me this sooner?" he spat, "you got the test results on Tuesday, why didn't you say anything?"

"I- well- I wanted to be sure!" Lestrade said defensively, "I didn't want to, in your words, jump to any more conclusions,"

Another imaginary dagger was thrown in Lestrade's direction, but he was silent.

I however, took this as an opportunity for me to coax the subject back to the matter in hand.

"Umm, carry on, Lestrade," I said quietly.

Lestrade cleared his throat and pulled out a stack of printed photographs.

"These are the images captured by local cameras showing the hideout," he said, holding them out to me.

Before I could take them, however, Sherlock had sprung to life, snatching them out of Lestrade's hands and sitting down, before either of us could blink.

Seriously, for a lazy asshole, he really could move like lighting sometimes.

"They do look similar," Sherlock said calmly, sifting through them, as though nothing had happened. For the first time in days, I saw the familiar sparkle of intrigue in his eyes, and felt relief settle in my stomach. Maybe tonight would be less stressful.

"Exactly," Lestrade agreed. I sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa and peered at them. He was right, of course. They all looked like the picture Lestrade had taken of the crime scene on his phone. I chuckled softly. Emily Jones really was an idiot.

Sherlock noticed my discreet laughter and threw a questioning gaze in my direction. I gestured to the pictures.

"Well, she's pretty sloppy if she's choosing hideouts in view of security cameras, isn't she?" I pointed out simply. Sherlock grunted nonchalantly.

" Where we're these taken?" he asked, waving them in Lestrade's face.

"Oh, hang on, I've marked them on a map," he dug into his pockets, rummaging for a moment, before pulling out a rather creased, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Sherlock, who unfolded the map impatiently, and observed it closely.

There were, indeed little red crosses where Lestrade had marked their locations.

Sherlock ran his finger over the one by Piccadilly.

"So very close to here..." he muttered.

He traced his long, spindly fingers from cross to cross, muttering to himself.

Suddenly, he gasped quietly.

"They are all within 3 miles of Baker Street," he whispered, as if it was some really significant fact about the case.

"Yeah, so?" I shrugged.

He turned to me, and gave me _the look_.

I groaned.

"Not 'the look', Sherlock, for Christ sake!"

"What look?"

"You know exactly what bloody look, so just stop it and tell me why that is so important!"

Clearly exasperated with my slowness, Sherlock sighed.

"Well, Baker Street is a very specific place, and these hide outs are all within 3 miles of it. Which means?"

He left the question open, hanging in the air for someone to answer.

"That Emily Jones wants to keep close?" Lestrade said doubtfully.

Sherlock nodded, "likely,"

"But, why?" I asked.

"Perhaps she's waiting for something? Something to happen? Something that's around here?" Lestrade muttered.

"Maybe," Sherlock said airily, his fingers steepled.

"Ok, but what has that got to do with finding Emily Jones?" I said dubiously.

Sherlock suddenly snapped out of it, and glared at me.

"Don't be such an idiot, John! If they are all within 3 miles, what does that tell us about where her next hide out will be?"

"That- that will be within 3 miles too?" I gasped looking up at Lestrade, who was grinning openly.

"Obvious," Sherlock said, with a nod.

"Brilliant!" I said in awe.

Sherlock grunted.

"Can you estimate where she will be next?" Lestrade asked him.

Sherlock glanced up at him, sardonically.

"Of course," he scoffed.

Lestrade nodded, "good, shall I leave you to it then?"

"That would be marvellous," Sherlock said earnestly.

Lestrade nodded, and I lead him out.

"Just to say, even though its God knows what time, I'm really grateful you came. I might be able to get some sleep tonight," I said quietly, "or more likely, this morning,"

Lestrade grinned.

"Glad to be of assistance," he replied.

I waved him off and then traipsed upstairs, my limbs heavy and mind tired.

Sherlock was in a much better mood. He had that gleam back in his eye that told me he was entertained, thank bloody God.

I smiled at him sleepily.

"I'm off to bed, is that ok?" I asked him quietly.

His head snapped up, "aren't you sleeping in here again?" his voice sounded, if I didn't know Sherlock, hurt.

I blinked in surprise.

"Umm- do you... Want me too?" I said haltingly, confused at his reaction.

He replied with a piercing stare, his silvery eyes burning into me.

"You. Want me to. Sleep. In here. With you?" I said between pauses, still completely at a loss to comprehend.

"Obviously. Wasn't the point of your persistence the other day to make sure I'm not alone? So I'm not drugged again?" he said blankly, not even averting his gaze.

I had, in truth, completely forgotten about the Irene Adler thing, and the drugging.

"I-" startled, I shook my head jerkily, to clear it, "right, ok, yeah, if you want me to- that's fine- fine," seemingly, Sherlock expressing his need for me like this rendered me close to incoherent, "I'm just- I'll go and- change- yeah- my pyjamas-" I hurried upstairs before I embarrassed myself even more and slammed the door behind me.

God what the hell just happened? Sherlock never did that. Ever. Ever ever ever.

I ran a hand through my hair and took a deep breath._ Ok, it's fine. Sherlock said himself that he's doing things now that he never used to. It's just one of those moments. _

I pulled on my pyjamas distractedly and headed back downstairs.

Sherlock had rearranged himself on his back on the sofa, and glanced at me as I came in. He had changed into his pyjamas as well.

"Hello John," he said amiably. I blinked again.

"Umm," was all I managed.

He grinned at me, "We are finally getting somewhere!" he said enthusiastically, "this is brilliant! All we need to do now is predict where she'll be next, and we'll have her! We can solve the case!"

"Yeah, brilliant," I sighed quietly, warily reassembling my makeshift bed.

He paused, and scanned me quietly. Somewhere through my fatigue, I felt a twinge of annoyance at his deductions. But was too tired to act on them.

"I'm sorry John,"

The completely un- Sherlock like comment caused my mind to immediately snap into overdrive.

"What?" I gasped, head snapping up to meet his sideways eyes.

"I said sorry, I know I've been- tough- these last few days, and you've put up with me well, so I apologise,"

For a moment, all my frazzled mind allowed me to do was gape at him, but then I found my tongue.

"It's ok, Sherlock," I said with a smile, "I know into not really your fault,"

He smiled back, looking relieved.

Then suddenly, he seemed to remember something, "I'll clean up," he said enthusiastically.

_Wow this is weird! _

I smiled even more widely, then went to turn the light off.

_A/n: I'm sorry, I sort of just skipped a week in the story, but nothing happens in that week, as you can probably tell by Sherlock's behaviour XD _

_I hope it was ok and that you are still enjoying it and that I'm not boring you! A review or two would be greatly appreciated as you are, as always, the reason why I'm writing this story, and feedback would be lovely! Xxx _


	29. Chapter 29 The Nightmares

Chapter 29- The Nightmares

_A/n: My Wi-Fi hasn't been working again, so I'm sorry about the delay, it's getting ridiculous! _

_Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed and favourited me the other day and I hope everyone is enjoying it so far!_

_So here is the next chapter, finally, I hope you all like it! Xxx _

JW

_I stumbled across the road, head throbbing. My mind had gone blank; a resounding echo kept bouncing through my thoughts:_

_No._

_No._

_Please no._

_No._

_No._

"_Sherlock…"I mumbled again and again, gasping for breath._

_A crowd of people swarmed around the black mass on the floor. My heart lurched. Shock caused me to tremble violently. _

_I pushed through the crowd of gasping onlookers._

_"I'm a doctor, let me through, let me through please, he's my friend, he's my friend please," I kept mumbling. The words seemed really muffled to me, as if I'd heard them from far away._

_Finally I got through._

_Sherlock was lying on the pavement, surrounded by a pool of scarlet. A hand turned his limp, lifeless body over. _

_I saw his face. Streaked with scarlet. His jet black hair matted._

_His sightless glassy, blue eyes that would never pierce me again._

_No..._

_I reached desperately for his arm, my two fingers digging in his wrist. I tried to find a pulse that I already knew wasn't there._

_I was numbly aware that hands were prising me off him._

_No..._

_My world was spinning, spiralling out of control._

_I couldn't breathe._

_He can't be dead. He can't._

_No..._

_My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the pavement hard on my knees._

_"Oh Jesus no..." I gasped, "God no..."_

_All I could see was his face._

_The blood._

_The glassy eyes._

_My best friend..._

_The vision swirled and suddenly I was standing on the pavement, looking up to Sherlock's figure on top of the building._

_I felt the mounting panic build up in my chest._

"_Oh god…" I gasp._

_"I-I can't come down so- so we are just going to have to do it like this," said Sherlock's voice through the phone. He sounded so scared, his voice was trembling slightly._

_"What's going on?" I found it hard to breathe._

"_An apology…"_

_There was a slight pause. Then..._

_"It's all true,"_

_No..._

_"w-w-what?" my voice cracked..._

"John!" shouted an urgent voice.

I was dimly aware that my body was getting shaken.

The clutches of the darkness were receding.

Oh god!

With a gasp I jerked awake, sitting bolt upright.

I was sweating and gasping and, I realised, crying.

"Sher- Sher- Sherlock," I stammered, panic bubbling up in my throat.

The nightmare.

Oh god the nightmare.

I couldn't shake the vision of his lifeless body from my mind.

_Just a dream. It's just a dream..._

"It's ok John... It's alright... I'm here John... It's ok," said a soothing, familiar voice.

My eyes finally focused. Sherlock was in front of me, eyes full of concern.

Sherlock...

"Oh Christ!" I gasped, flinging my arms around him.

_It's just a dream, Sherlock's not dead, he's here... Just a dream..._

I buried my head into his shoulder, repeating this again and again in my mind. I felt him stiffen slightly, and then relax. I felt him arms come protectively around me.

"It's ok John," he whispered in my ear.

I took a deep shuddering breath and forced myself to calm down. Finally, I pulled back.

Sherlock kept his hands on my arms comfortingly.

"Are you ok?" he said quietly.

I took a couple of calming breaths and nodded shakily.

"Yeah... I'm...I'm fine...just...thanks," I said weakly.

He shrugged, "it's quite painful watching you really," he said in a very subdued voice.

He presented me with a glass of water, condensation glistening around the edges. I took it gratefully, taking a shaky sip.

"Oh God, Sherlock, why aren't they going away?" I whispered after a while.

My eyes met his sympathetic blue ones desperately.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully.

"I can't keep doing this," I whispered, "every time I close my eyes, I see you, lying there on the pavement,"

His eyes closed, scrunching them up so creases appeared around the edges, and he blew out a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry John," he whispered, pain breaking through his voice, "I really am, I wish I'd never jumped,"

I shook my head violently, "shut up Sherlock, it's not your fault! If you didn't jump, I would be dead,"

"But-" he objected despairingly.

This time, I placed my hand on his mouth, causing him to stop in shock.

"No," I said firmly, "it's fine! I'm fine! You don't need to regret it, you had to do it, so you did," what I was saying was all true, but I couldn't stop the small tremor in my voice as I remembered those lonely 5 months.

He wrapped his elegant fingers around my wrist, and removed my hand from his mouth.

"I won't ever stop being sorry John," he said quietly.

"And I won't ever stop forgiving you," I whispered back.

The answering smile was the brightest I'd seen in days, and one I realised that I wanted to see more often.

I finished the water quickly and then clambered out of bed.

"Thanks for waking me up, by the way," I said calmly, putting the glass in the sink.

"It's fine,"

We were silent for a very long time, both of us just sitting in the front room as the sun filtered through the windows. I glanced at the clock. It was 6.30 in the morning. I calculated. I'd only had 4 hours sleep.

God, I felt sorry for Sherlock.

"Sorry for waking you," I said guiltily. His head flashed up, eyes wide.

"What? No! Don't be!" he said in a low voice, "I didn't mind,"

His voice took on a strange hollow sound, as if remembering something.

_Huh?_

"What's wrong?" I asked quietly.

Sherlock, who seemed to be lost in thought, suddenly snapped out of it.

"Sorry, what?"

"What's wrong?" I pressed, "I know something's wrong,"

His mouth squirmed slightly.

"Nothing's wrong John," he said quietly, "I'm fine,"

And suddenly it hit me.

"You had a nightmare too, didn't you?" I gasped.

He blinked.

"No,"

"But you did, didn't you?" I whispered.

I don't know what made him change his mind, but suddenly, he sighed in resignation.

"Fine, yes I did, but it doesn't matter," he began to fiddle with his fingers, looking down.

I came to sit by him.

"Tell me," I said calmly, "it always helps me to tell people,"

Again, he sighed.

"It was about- well- you,"

I stopped, blinked.

"What?"

Again, he sighed deeply, finally meeting my eyes.

"I was on the building, looking down at you- hearing your disbelief and fear through the phone-" he paused, "it's one of my worst memories,"

I grimaced, "that makes two of us,"

But then I smiled, "but it's over now,"

"Yes,"

That was the only answer I got.

_A/n: so a bit of an angsty one, but I hope you liked it! A review or two would be really appreciated! X _

_Also, just a fair warning, I'm probably not going to get the chance to update now until the earliest next Thursday, because I'm off to Spain, and alas, there's no Wi-Fi there. I hope you're not angry with me! X _


	30. Chapter 30 The Next Move

Chapter 30- The Next Move

_A/n: so I lied! Turns out I had time to post one last chapter before I go away so I hope it's good! And Chapter 30 guys! OMG that's amazing! Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me for so long!_

_It's quite a long one so I hope you like it! Xxx _

SH

The map lay spread out on the table, red crosses mocking me, laughing.

I was so close to Emily Jones. So close to solving the case. So close...

Yet I still wasn't any closer.

It was bloody annoying!

Throughout this morning, I had worked on the map, along with the London A-Z by my side (which was John's idea by the way, I didn't need it. I had a map of London already made in my head) and I had composed a list of all possible locations from up to 3 miles away.

But there were so many! It would take us forever to search every one! And by that time she would have moved on.

So I had gone back to the map to search it for more clues. There had to be something else tying them! There had to be!

John sat in his armchair, with the recent newspaper that Mycroft had _so helpfully _supplied this morning, along with a texted warning:

Try to be careful and not overstep, dear brother, you may expose yourself soon,

MH

As I said. _So_ helpful, my bloody brother was. He obviously had time to text me, but not to cancel his dental appointment. Perhaps all the cake was rotting his teeth. I wouldn't be surprised.

At my uttered groan, John looked up.

"No luck, I'm guessing,"

"You guess correctly," I snapped. He sighed.

"Look, Sherlock, I want to help you, but if you keep doing this, I won't be able to," he said in his calm, methodical voice. I stomped over to him, and pressed the map into his hands.

"I'm not getting it," I said, frustrated, "there's something else tying them together, but I just can't seem to reach it! Dammit!" I scanned my eyes impatiently over the map again, flicking from cross to cross, "dammit dammit dammit!"

"Calm down, Sherlock," John said with a sigh, "you won't be able to think straight if you're frustrated," he put a soothing hand on my arm, rubbing his thumb in circles gently. I was surprised to find that it actually worked and I found myself relaxing slightly.

I knelt down buy the side of his chair, so I was level with him, and squinted at the map again.

"Let's start from the start," said John, "what do you know about this map?"

I close my eyes, reaching for my mind palace, all my information about the hideouts flooding to the front. My centre focus.

"They are all in close proximity," I mutter, "up to 3 miles away, exactly,"

"Good," floated John's voice calmly.

"They are all in similar places, warehouses, back streets etc."

I paused.

"They are not close to each other; obviously she's trying to stop connections being made,"

In my head, an image of the map came up, the red crosses blazing. I saw the routes that I'd predicted he'd take to get from be to the other.

"She uses backstreets to make her escapes, I think she knows that she's got people tracking her," I mumbled.

"Ok," John said quietly.

"And then there's-" suddenly a thought snapped into my head, bright and dazzling, causing me to stutter to a halt.

"There's what?" John prompted.

I opened my eyes, fixing John with a gleeful expression, and then I grabbed the map from him, scanning it again.

"Oh JOHN!" I said delightedly, "John I've found it! I found the connection!" I was elated. Thank bloody god for that! I turned, map floating to the floor, and unthinkingly pulled John into a tight embrace, head bursting with excitement.

"What the hell?" John managed to stutter in shock, voice muffled by my shoulder.

"Thank you John! Thank you thank you thank you!" I said breathlessly, before springing up with the map. This time I made quick work of my list. It was so obvious; I could hardly believe that I'd missed it the first time!

"John!" I grinned, pulling out my phone to text Lestrade, "John, I think we've got her!"

JW

Lestrade came over soon after receiving the text, and looked just as breathless as Sherlock, who was completely and utterly hyper beyond belief.

"What's happening?" he asked, "Sherlock said he's got something,"

I chuckled. Really, Sherlock did everything he could to sound mysterious.

"He thinks he's found Emily Jones," I said with a grin, watching Lestrade's face light up.

"Really? That would be brilliant!"

He ran up the stairs into our flat, bursting into the room like an exploding firework.

Sherlock stopped pacing immediately, eyes bright and smile wide.

"Lestrade! You're here! Good. Let's go!"

And he fled to the door, grabbing the top of my arm, twisting me around and pulling me along, much to my surprise; I could only yelp in shock.

Lestrade, on the other hand looked flabbergasted.

"What? Now?" he spluttered eyes wide. Sherlock snorted.

"Of course, we only have a small window, we need to catch her before she flees, there's no time to waste!"

"But, h-how did you-"

"Oh not now Lestrade," he groaned, "I'll tell you later, but right now we need to go!"

And before either of us could do so much as blink, Sherlock, and me getting dragged, was out the door and halfway down the street, making for Lestrade's car.

"Drive," he ordered Lestrade, who stammered, "I don't know where to go,"

"I'll tell you, now go!"

I found myself getting pushed into the backseat of the car _again_ while Lestrade and Sherlock, who was holding the map, went in the front seats. And then Sherlock was giving instructions, left, right, down here, etc. and Lestrade was expected to keep up with the constant flow of information. I watched out the window as the streets became increasingly unfamiliar and the roads became narrower.

Finally, Sherlock leant forward.

"Stop," he ordered quietly, "we're here,"

We were parked up outside a large, desolate warehouse; reminiscent of the one Mycroft had led me to when I had first met him.

"Are you sure?" came Lestrade's dubious reply.

"Of course I am," Sherlock snorted, getting out the car quietly, "now let's go!"

The whole place looked incredibly foreboding and I was very glad that I had brought my gun with me. As if reassuring myself, I ran a light finger over the handle sticking out my pocket.

Sherlock beckoned us with his left hand, whilst trying the handle with his right. It swung freely on its hinges, groaning slightly, the sound amplified by the huge, gaping emptiness of the room inside. It was empty.

"She's through here," whispered Sherlock, stepping into the room, making no sound.

"how-?" began Lestrade breathlessly.

"I saw the light," Sherlock explained, cutting through before Lestrade could even finish the sentence.

Lestrade swore quietly.

"I'll call for backup," he said backing out of the room, and pulling out his phone.

Sherlock glanced at me, and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, before leading me on through the room, leaving Lestrade behind.

Feeling rather unsettled, I held back slightly.

"Sherlock!" I hissed, unnerved, "Sherlock I think we should wait for Lestrade..."

"Uhh, waiting is boring, I've told you all already, we only have a small window! We need to get going!"

"Yes but-"

"Shut up John, we need to be quiet,"

I sighed, but followed him anyway.

He gently pushed on the small black door at the end of the room. This one was quieter, and only opened a crack. A slither of light slashed the black concrete floor, and as we peered through, I saw the fire, crackling merrily in the middle of the vast room.

"There she is," Sherlock breathed, glancing quickly at me, before turning back to the crack, "Emily Jones,"

I could see her too. A small slender woman with dirty blond hair stood in the room. She wore a baggy, hot pink sweatshirt and dirty looking jeans that seemed to be torn at the bottom. And, luckily for us, she had her back to the door.

Sherlock opened the door a crack more, and we saw another person in the room. A ratty looking man with long floppy hair. He was pressed up against the wall, hands splayed out in a way that told me immediately that he had been backed up there, not out of choice.

"I thought you said you'd have it by now," snarled the woman. Her pose shifted to defensive, and she was advancing on him slowly. In her clenched right fist, she held a small pocket knife, glittering slightly in the gaping window light.

The man stiffened, his breathing could be heard from all the way over to where we were standing- it was ragged and harsh. He was frightened.

"I-I-I-" he stammered.

"_Where is it_?" she hissed empathetically.

Oh god this wasn't looking good.

"We need to stop her!" I whispered urgently in Sherlock's ear, " she has a knife,"

"Well observed," Sherlock remarked dryly.

"She's going to stab him," I croaked, throat dry. Instinctively, my fingertips once again found the handle of my gun, about to draw it.

"Right,' was his only answer.

And before I could say or do anything, he had flung the door wide and stride boldly into the room without a second thought.

I fought the urge to swear profusely at his rashness. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing? She could swing around at any moment and catch him with the knife.

Oh god.

Sherlock, who was as silent as a ghost, had managed to sneak up behind the woman, smack the knife from her hand and twist her arms behind her back. The man scarpered without a backwards glance. I heard the knife clatter noisily to the floor.

The woman yelped in surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?" she spat, "who the hell are you?"

"Oh spare the noise for God's sake," Sherlock sighed warily, in way of reply.

I felt like cursing again. The bloody idiot was only going to wind her up. What good would that do? I found myself wishing that Lestrade would hurry up with his backup.

"Let go of me!" she yelled viciously , flexing her wrists and trying to wrench her arms of Sherlock's grip. But he only held her tighter.

"Shut up," he hissed. His eyes flicked to where I was hiding, behind the door frame. I took this as my cue.

I pulled my gun out from my pocket and wrapped my fingers around it.

Suddenly, something cold and hard was pressed roughly into my temple.

Oh. My. God.

A lean, muscular arm came from nowhere, gripping me in a tight headlock. I heard the click of the fun getting cocked close to my left ear.

"Drop your gun," purred a voice in my right, "or you will find out what it's like to have your brains blown out,"

My breath caught in my throat and my heart pounded painfully against my ribs.

But my left hand was steady, and I knew why soldier instincts were kicking in.

Before I could think anymore however, his arm tightened, slightly trapping my airways.

"Drop. It."

My suddenly numb fingers relinquished their hold on the gun. It dropped with a loud clatter and skidded across the stone floor.

"Good," hissed the voice, "now... Walk,"

I felt him push into my back and I stumbled forward, chin jerking slightly into his tight arm as I slipped.

He led me out of the safety of the door frame and into the room, clear for everyone or see.

"Look who was lurking behind the door," called out the voice, making me wince.

The struggling suddenly stopped as both Sherlock and the woman turned in our direction…

_A/n: …and another cliff hanger for you! I hope you liked this chapter and a couple of reviews from you lovely people would be absolutely amazing! Xxx _

_And this really is the last chapter until next Thursday now, so I hope you liked it! _


	31. Chapter 31 Stalling

Chapter 31- Stalling

_A/n: so I'm back from Spain and we have had a new Wi-Fi box so that shouldn't be a problem anymore! Yay! I know I said, possibly Thursday, but I didn't have time so I sorry about that! I hope you enjoyed the cliff hanger last week and here is the next chapter! I really hope it doesn't disappoint you all and thank you to mvignal and the guest who reviewed my last chapter! _

_So I'm sorry about the wait and please enjoy! Xxx _

SH

I heard the voice and my head snapped up.

I saw John.

A gun pressed into his head.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, looking like a limp, vulnerable rag doll in the tall man's arms. And so small.

His eyes locked onto mine and held there.

He was trying to stay brave, but they showed the fear that was really there.

In that moment, my brain seized up. All I could think was John.

John.

John.

"Well, well," snarled the woman, "is this one of your little friends?"

She cackled, and a white hot fury burst inside me. I tightened my hold on her wrists, fingernails digging into her skin. She gasped sharply at the pain, but then managed to laugh again.

"Ok-ay then, I suppose we could work this to my advantage..." she paused for a while, "if you don't let me go, then your small friend here will die, how about that?"

_Shit._

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. Now what could I do? At her words, my heart started to pound. One look at John's determined mask of bravery made my stomach twist sickeningly.

I hated myself for caring. Not for the first time, I wished that I didn't. That I could look at John the way I looked at most of the world. With cold detachment. I could have had Emily Jones and got her into custody. I could have solved the case.

But I couldn't.

Because it was John.

Caring. The biggest disadvantage.

And I cared about John.

I couldn't imagine being without John again. Not again. Never again.

_Oh John_...

So I held my breath, and let go of her wrists. She staggered away from me, a grin twisting her vicious face.

"That's better isn't it?" she cooed, massing her wrist, which were both ringed with red puncture marks from my nails. I felt grimly pleased that I had hurt her.

"Now, who the hell are you?"

I pressed my tongue against my cheek. In my peripheral vision, I saw the man's hold on John's head tighten minutely.

I remained silent, glaring at her.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Tut tut someone's not learning," she hissed, "if you don't answer my questions, your friend will die, don't you understand?" she said in a low, dangerous voice.

"Don't Sh-" John croaked, before getting cut off.

"Shut up," growled the man. My eyes flashed up to him and immediately, my mind began analysing every weak point. His elbows, eyes, groin. I knew where to hit him if I had chance.

The gun was pressed harder into John's temple, making him wince slightly.

God I hated seeing him like that.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," I said in a strong voice, turning back to Emily Jones.

"Good, well done Mr Holmes," she praised, her voice adopting a babyish tone, "you're learning! Wow, what wonders a friend can do eh?'

I felt my blood boil and I felt like hitting her.

But I couldn't, because any sudden movement could cause John to get shot.

Where the hell had Lestrade got off to?

"So, what are you doing here?" she asked harshly.

My gaze flickered from her to John and back again.

_Hurry up Lestrade!_ I found myself thinking desperately, which was surprising in itself.

I swallowed.

"Well I'm investigating the murder of your boyfriend,"

For a brief moment, I saw surprise and fear flash across her face, before it was replaced by anger.

"What?" she hissed.

"You heard me," I said haughtily. I hated repeating myself.

She shot me a murderous glare. Then she raised her hand, indicating to the man.

"No!" I yelled, all too loud, "No, I'll tell you,"

My heart hammered in my chest. I didn't know how long I could stall for.

"You're boyfriend, Jaden Haye, was murdered, and you are linked to the murder," I said as calmly as I could, staring her straight in the eyes.

"I don't know what you are talking about!" she spat furiously, "I don't know anyone called Jaden Haye,"

But I saw her eyes flicker to the left.

_Liar _

I smirked.

"He was you're boyfriend- tell me, how did you do it? I wouldn't have known it was you if I hadn't of spotted the earring,"

She looked flustered, but regained control before I could weaken her anymore.

"It's called tact," she said harshly, "he was annoying, he had money, and I killed him, simple,"

"So it was you," I whispered, hushed. Inside, I felt triumphant. I had known all along that she had played a bigger part in this than John wanted to believe.

_John…_

"ENOUGH!" she suddenly screamed, looking furious with herself, "ENOUGH!" she span around to face the man holding John, who I knew now was Mark Goodman, "Kill him,"

The words seemed to reverberate inside my head.

_Kill him…kill him…kill him…_

"No!" I shout desperately.

John struggled, but the arm around his neck only gets tighter. I can see him gasping for air. Spluttering, as the gun is pushed harder into his head.

His finger is on the trigger.

He'd about to press it.

I'm gripped with a terrible hopelessness and fear as I realise there and then that John is going to die.

My heart thunders in my chest.

And there's nothing I can do to stop him…

_A/n: and another cliff hanger! Lol I feel evil! I hope you enjoyed it and a review or two would be really, really appreciated! Xxx _


	32. Chapter 32 Scarlet

Chapter 32- Scarlet

_A/n: I'm sorry, I feel bad for keeping you waiting with an evil cliff hanger like that :D so I decided to post this next chapter up earlier than I anticipated. _

_Anyways, I hope you enjoy it and don't hate me too much by the end of it…_

SH

Suddenly, the warehouse door slammed open again, the ear splitting sound echoing throughout the empty room.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON!" came Lestrade's voice, followed by urgent footsteps.

I had never.

Ever.

In my entire life.

Been so glad to see Lestrade.

As I was in that moment.

I spun around.

The surprise was their advantage.

Before the man holding John could react, he'd been tackled to the floor roughly; his fingers had relinquished his hold on the gun and now it was flung across the room, skidding to a few meters away, black metal glinting in the half light.

Other officers, had dragged John, who had come close to falling on his knees, away from the scene, to where he stood by Lestrade, tired and pale.

The whole building was now rippling with the sounds of chaos. Shouting and banging and screaming echoing loudly.

As she saw the group of armed police, Emily Jones was starting to panic. She turned to run, and I saw her wild eyes flicker to where the gun lay, and, then, in a split second, she darted towards it.

"No!" I yelled. I ran to tackle her. I launched myself on her, pinning her to the hard floor. We skidded roughly.

But her hand had already found the gun, which had been cocked previously.

She spun it around, and her finger found the trigger.

A shot, loud, harsh and clear rang through. The bullet whistled past my ear, barely missing me.

I pulled it from her grasp and tossed it as far away as I could.

But she'd already released the bullet.

JW

A blinding pain flared like a dazzling firework in my thigh, searing. Burning.

I staggered, inhaling sharply, mind blank with shock.

I saw scarlet.

I saw the wound where the bullet had hit. All ragged, torn skin and blood.

My shaking hands tried desperately to staunch the wound. It was warm and sticky, the blood gushing through my fingers.

For the second time in my life, I had been shot. The pain was so intense, I could barely breathe.

I leant heavily against the wall.

_Oh God..._

SH

I heard the gasp, and my head shot up.

I saw John, slumped against the wall.

Then I saw scarlet.

And time seemed to stutter to a halt as I stared.

"John,"

I stumbled to his side, my hands gripping his shoulders. I tried desperately to make eye contact.

"John look at me," I begged, voice cracking, heart pounding.

His breathing was very shallow, his face deathly pale.

His eyes, clouded with pain, met mine.

His lips trembled as he spoke.

"Owe," he breathed, shuddering.

Some choked, gasping sound tore from my throat.

"Oh god, John,"

I didn't know what to do. My mind was completely blank. All I could see was the blood. The scarlet. I wished that I was a doctor, like John, so I could help him.

I looked at his thigh, his hands were stained scarlet, shaking slightly. I moved them out the way, gasping for breath.

It was such a bloody wound, the bullet was still imbedded in his flesh.

I couldn't tell how deep it was. Why couldn't I tell how deep it was? He was losing so much blood. God...

"Lestrade!" I choked out, voice trembling as I pressed my hands against the wound to try and stop the blood. He winced, the breath whooshing from his lungs as the pain struck him. He was shuddering more violently now, eyelids flickering.

"Oh shit," Lestrade looked horrified. He pulled out his iPhone and tossed it to a police officer standing close.

"Call an ambulance, now! John's been shot,"

_John's been shot... John's been shot..._ The words span around my head. Like a tornado. My heart pounded.

Lestrade pressed his grey jacket into my hands, "keep pressure on it! John, look at me! Stay awake!"

John's body shuddered again. His unfocused eyes found Lestrade.

"I'm...f-ne...b-n...s-ot b'fore...," he mumbled breathlessly.

He jumped as I secured the jacket around his leg.

God, it was already damp with blood.

"Have you called?" growled Lestrade, looking almost as pale as John, as he turned to the man again.

"Yes, they're on their way," stammered the man.

John was losing consciousness. That much was becoming painfully obvious to me. He was losing too much blood.

"John!" I gasped, shaking him slightly. Cold, hard fear was squeezing me tightly, making it hard to breath.

"John stay with me! Please, god, John stay awake! Please! Just keep looking at me!" I pleaded.

"Sher-lock..." he gasped through his pain. His hands slackened slightly on my arms.

"John..."

Suddenly, the room was illuminated by flashing blue and white lights. The sound of the ambulance siren seemed amplified by the smooth walls.

Suddenly, the place was swarming with paramedics and I was pushed away from him, in a sea of blue and white. The sound of their urgent voices swam in my mind, not really getting registered by my numb brain.

They loaded a now unconscious John onto a stretcher and they hurried out to the ambulance.

All I could do was sit on the cold stone floor and try to control my breathing. My eyes were glued to the spot where John had lay, the floor was stained with blood.

Numb with shock, I could hardly feel Lestrade's hands on my shoulders, guiding me gently into an upright position.

"He be alright mate, don't worry," he tried to say soothingly. His voice sounded far away, and echoing. I couldn't look at him. My eyes were transfixed. My heart still pounded. I was numb. I was frightened.

So very, very frightened.

"John..."

I could see my reaction unnerved him. I knew that he had never seen me so frightened. So emotional before. But I didn't care.

_John..._

I pushed myself away from him, and through the crowd of police. Emily Jones had been handcuffed and was now screaming abuse at the crowed of officers who held her in position. The man who had held John was sporting a bloody cut on his forehead and had also been handcuffed. But I no longer cared.

_John..._

_John…_

I made my way down to the ambulance.

_A/n: again you probably hate me… but ah well, 'tis drama for you! I don't know if this is over-dramatic or anything but I hope its ok!_

_A review or two from you wonderful people would be really appreciated! Xxx _


	33. Chapter 33 Waiting

Chapter 33- Waiting

_A/n: I'm really sorry about the late update guys, I've been so busy this week its been unbelievable! While I'm writing, I'm just going say a HUGE thank you to Tony Stark for being absolutely amazing and reviewing and I'm just so grateful! Also thank you to Sherlocked in my heart for reviewing and following as well. And another thank you to mvignal and Jsylum too you guys are seriously amazing!_

_Anyway, thank you's over with, here is the next chapter! I really hope you enjoy it! xxx_

SH

The wait was one of the most painful experiences of my entire life.

I sat on the hard, plastic grey chair in the emergency waiting room, the smell of disinfectant all around me. I stared numbly at the window. It was grey outside too. The whole world was grey.

I couldn't think straight. My mind was blank, wiped clean by fear. I was so afraid.

_John…_

They hadn't let me in the ambulance, saying I wasn't a relation so I couldn't go. I had tried.

Lestrade had taken me- we followed in his police car, and he had taken me in.

He sat next to me now. I turned my head slightly to find him watching me, a frown creasing his brow. His expression reminded me painfully of John, and my heart squeezed again, making it hard for me to breathe.

_John…_

And we waited.

And waited.

Hours and hours and hours went by.

I lost track of the time.

And all the while I got increasingly panicky, to the point where I was nearly hyperventilating. What if he died? What would I do? What _could_ I do?

Because I just didn't know what I would do if John died.

_No…_

My hands shook and I squeezed my eyes. I can't break down. Not here. Not in front of Lestrade.

What if John is dead now? And they don't want to tell me?

_NO!_

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's voice was hushed, he sounded so worried. His hand rested on my arm, trying to offer comfort.

I realised suddenly that I actually _am_ hyperventilating. I forced my breathing to calm down, and find it really hard to do so. I pressed my face into my hands, and kept it there. _I needed to calm down. I needed to calm down. I needed to calm down. _

I hated all these emotions. Making it hard to think properly. How could normal people cope?

Suddenly, I heard a door open, and my head snapped up.

A doctor was walking swiftly towards us, a clipboard in hand, a small smile on his face. I hardly dared to hope.

He stopped in front of us. I stand up.

"Is he ok?" I winced when my voice came out week and scratchy. I cleared my throat.

The doctor smiled again, sympathetically.

"He's going to be, he was really, really lucky,"

The relief washed over me in a wave of tidal force. I found myself collapsing in the chair again, breathing deeply.

The doctor was speaking again.

"They've removed the bullet, and he's stable at the moment. He's lost a lot of blood though, he's going to need transfusions,"

"Can I see him?" I peered up at him, hoping, pleading, my voice still a lot weaker than I'd hoped it would be.

He checked the check board swiftly.

"Name?"

"Umm, Sherlock Holmes,"

He writes something down.

"Be my guest," he says, looking at me over square rimmed glasses, "but don't expect him to be awake- he's on morphine to stop the pain," he said gently.

I nodded, and followed him down the A&E corridor, into a quieter section. There was a row of private rooms lining the corridor, and I silently thanked Mycroft for putting John in one of them. Though I suppose, I _did_ ask him.

He unlocked the door, with a white card, and with a beep, he pushed it open, inviting me in.

"You have an hour at maximum, before the doctors will be in again," the doctor said quietly, but I didn't respond. My mind was blank. I didn't even register him leaving, or the door shutting.

John lay on the white bed in the middle of the room, swamped by the thick blankets and trailing wires that seemed to shrink him.

He looked so small, so fragile, so frail.

He was fast asleep, hooked up to a morphine drip in his right arm, and an ECG in the corner that sang his heart rate quietly- _beep, beep, beep, beep._

I couldn't think straight.

I sat in the chair next to him and stared at his sleeping face.

Even in sleep, he frowned. He looked like he was in pain.

I was overwhelmed by the storm of emotions that took over me. I wasn't used to it. I didn't like it. I couldn't recognise most of them.

But it hurt. Everything inside me hurt, as though I was in pain too.

I reached over, and I took his hand in mine. I was cold, but the skin was so soft.

I held his hand and I wouldn't let go.

Today, seeing him shot and bleeding and unconscious before my eyes, not knowing if he was going to make it, had set in a panic unlike anything I had ever felt in my life before, not even when I had seen him about to jump off this very roof.

I realised that I needed him. So badly.

I didn't know what I would ever do, if he died.

I cradled his hand close, eyes squeezed shut. I was allowed this little sentimental act, no one was watching. Lestrade seemed to have left.

Strange. I can't remember him leaving.

But I would never let John get hurt again. I would never leave him alone again.

Never.

And I sat in the small, private hospital room all day, and I promised myself.

_A/n: phew, John's ok, John's ok, I love him too much to hurt him too badly -.-_

_I hope you all enjoyed it and a review or two would be really appreciated!_

_Oh, and for anyone who is interested, on Amazon, type in bbc Sherlock posters, and they do SIGNED photos, signed by both Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch, for £5.99! just thought I'd mention it :D_

_Anyway please review if you can and I hope you enjoyed it! I'll update real soon!xxx _


	34. Chapter 34 Hospital

Chapter 34- Hospital

_A/n: sorry about the delay! We're nearing the end now, probably only a few more chapters and I spent a lot of time trying to write it up and finish it off! Which has been surprisingly difficult, I seemed to have some sort of writers block half way through. I hope it hasn't been boring you all, I really do!_

_Thank you to mvignal for reviewing my last chapter, it really means a lot to me ;D_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter I hope you enjoy it! Xxx _

JW

Of course being drugged up on morphine had its disadvantages. One of them being that it kept me drifting in and out of the clutches of clinging sleep that stuck to me like cobwebs. And that's the only thought I had in my head. _Wake, sleep, wake, sleep._

Every time I slept, the morphine had me dreaming so vividly, that it got to the point where I didn't know what was dream and what was reality.

And it hurt.

Especially for a guy who suffered with terrible nightmares anyway.

Every time I dreamt, it was about Sherlock dying- or being alone- or getting shot at in Afghanistan.

It hurt.

Which was weird because I thought morphine was supposed to take away the pain.

What was the point of having morphine to take away the pain of the bullet when I got pain through my dreams anyway? And that pain was worse. Much worse.

I felt myself getting dragged out of the dream again, like I was getting pulled through a thick veil into a dull world full of pain. I vaguely heard a dull _bleep bleep _in the background and white light caressed my eyelids. It was numbly familiar.

Everything felt heavy, my head felt like it was sinking in heavy water. My lips parted slightly and a quiet groan escaped through them.

Suddenly, I felt pressure on my left hand, as if someone had squeezed it.

"Is he awake?" the voice, while familiar, sounded like it had been strained and distorted before reaching my ears, echoing inside my head. It was a deep voice, smooth, yet filled with emotion.

"He's coming to, he'll be fully awake in 5 minutes, now he's off the morphine," said an unfamiliar voice.

What? Did that mean no more vivid hallucinations? Unless this was a hallucination...

Slowly, I felt myself coming back to the real world, if it was the real world. Feeling began creeping up on me. I felt it awaken in my legs and feet, and then my chest. I could feel the heat and softness of the blanket pulled up to my chin. I could feel the trailing wires that hooked me up to the ECG, for I'd realised what the _beep beep _was now. I could also feel the air on my bear arms, where they lay outside of the warmth of the blanket. I felt a hand on mine...it was a nice feeling. I felt safe. Secure. The light was stronger, the cobwebs of darkness getting pulled away from me.

And then I felt the pain in my thigh.

It wasn't as bad as before, but it still felt as if my whole thigh was on fire. It was very, painfully, reminiscent of the time I was sent back to London after the war, with a useless shoulder. Only that time I had been alone, and fever ridden too.

I moaned again, and my arms twitched slightly. Slowly, very slowly, the cobwebs of the darkness receded all together, leaving me in the light. The water pressing on my head had gone too. I was coming back. I was awake.

The _beep beep _of the ECG was loud and clear in my ear. My eyelids fluttered.

"John?" a voice gasped.

Oh god that voice... I missed that voice so much.

I found that I could move my mouth.

"Sherlock?" my voice rasped, thickly.

A sound between a chuckle and a sob hit my ears; the pressure on my hand tightened almost painfully.

"Yes, I'm here John, I'm here," whispered his voice.

My heart leapt at the sound. The voice of my best friend. In my ear, I heard the beeping accelerate slightly, and Sherlock laugh quietly.

"I'll, umm... I'll leave you to it," said the unfamiliar voice. I heard the sound of a door close, but didn't want to open my eyes.

I twisted my head slightly too where I had heard his voice and a smile lit my face. If this was a dream, I didn't want to end. Because Sherlock was there. And Sherlock was never there in my dreams usually, because he was dead in my dreams usually.

Unfortunately, my mind was still slightly detached from the rest of me, and I don't know why I said it. Perhaps the dreams that were still at the back of my mind still hurt, but suddenly, out of the blue,

"Don't ever leave me Sherlock..." I mumbled sleepily.

I finally opened my eyes, and I found his blue ones fixed wide on mine.

For once, all the masks had been stripped bare and replaced with a softness I'd never seen before. When he realised I was looking however, it vanished.

"Never, John," he whispered, "never again... I promise,"

I smiled at him. His answering smile was bright, but didn't really reach his eyes. They remained distant- haunted almost.

We were silent for what seemed like ages.

It gave me time to study the room. It was small, obviously private, with a large window overlooking the constant chaos of London. Two soft grey chairs stood opposite each other by the window, angling slightly towards the bed. Sherlock sat in one of them, the one closest. The door window had been blocked by vertical blinds, allowing privacy. It was nice, I suppose, for a hospital.

But Christ felt terrible.

Finally Sherlock spoke, his voice brittle.

"John?" he whispered. My eyes snapped back to him, questioning.

"Will you promise to never leave me too?"

For one moment, he sounded like a young, innocent child, asking for protection. His blue eyes were so wide, glittering slightly. I couldn't think of what to say. He swallowed.

"It's- it's just that- I thought-" he cleared his throat, "I thought you were going to- I thought I was going to lose you..." he broke off and looked down at his lap.

I couldn't stand seeing him like that. It was something so rare in itself. The last time I'd seen it had been when he met me in Lauriston Gardens that morning.

Christ had it really only been a few weeks since then? It felt like a life time ago. So much had happened since, it was like those 5 months had been completely forgotten and we'd fallen into the old pattern. Not that I didn't want it to be like that, we'd both suffered enough, but it was just- weird.

I swallowed, brought myself back to the hospital room, where Sherlock was now watching my face, waiting for my answer.

"I promise," I said quietly.

He smiled.

"John," he sighed, relief evident in his tone.

"Sherlock," I replied.

It was obvious the little emotional chat was over.

"Feel better?"

"A little, at least the pain has eased down now," I grimaced slightly.

Sherlock nodded, "the doctor said they want to keep you in a few days,"

I groaned, my head falling back on the pillow with a muffled thump, "I hate hospitals,"

" I know," he said cheerfully. He scanned me quickly, before I had time to complain, "Oooh, you're worried about whether you'll have to _really_ use that walking stick this time,"

"Ugh! Jesus Sherlock, stop that!" I grimaced at him. He smirked.

"You won't be able to anyway, I used it for an experiment,"

"Of course you did," I sighed, exasperated. At least it kept me from thinking too much about my current situation.

"Oh, and my _dear _brother wants a word, -don't ask," He added, when he saw my confusion, "just let him talk at you, it'll be fine,"

"Umm- ok,"

I had the slightest suspicion that both of the Holmes brothers had rehearsed this, waiting for me to wake up. It was all moving rather quickly for my still delicate mind to cope with.

As if to prove my point, my head chose that time to throb painfully.

Sherlock got up and went over to the door.

Mycroft was standing by it patiently, umbrella, ever present, in hand. A few short, and rather heated, words were exchanged, and then Mycroft stepped into the room, giving me a swift smile.

"Good evening John how's your leg?" he said, by way of starting conversation. My gaze flickered to the door, where Sherlock stood sulkily, not coming back in. He nodded at me. I looked back to Mycroft.

"Its fine thanks, better anyway,"

Mycroft noticed the exchange, then deftly closed the door, locking Sherlock out. I heard him exclaim, but it was very muffled. Mycroft tapped the wood, deftly, "soundproof, thank Goodness,"

Oooh. So this conversation was private then. I frowned slightly. I didn't really want to remember our last _private _conversation.

"well, that's good," he said smoothly, as if nothing had happened, " my brother did make sure that you got the best medical attention, so I was rather hoping all my money was being put to good use," another smile, as my mouth dropped. My gaze flickered once again to Sherlock's silhouette, brain whirring.

"You- Sherlock- I... What?" I stammered weakly, angry at myself for sounding like a complete idiot, "but-"

"no matter John, I too believe you are beneficial to my brother and wanted you back to full health as soon as possible, he's been..." he grimaced slightly, "rather much worse without you,"

I blinked, not even wanted to imagine, "how long have I been here?"

"Oh about 3 days, Sherlock will be able to tell you," He said airily, waving his hand, "they had to do rather a lot of cleaning up I'm afraid... And then you needed a blood transfusion..."

"Uhh," was all I managed to say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Let's just be grateful that it's your leg, and not your head," he added, with a swift smile.

"How did you…?" I faltered. Mycroft seemed to know everything, so it was a silly question. He answered anyway.

"Greg told me everything, after hearing it from Sherlock I believe, and watching CCTV. He's currently interrogating Emily Jones and the other man- um- Mark Goodman,"

"Right," I nodded, chewing my lip, "yeah I suppose I should be lucky that the bloody idiot dropped the gun then really,"

"Indeed," Mycroft gazed for a moment out of the window.

"But that's... Not what I came here to talk about," he said finally, sitting down smartly in the chair Sherlock had so recently occupied.

I sat up slightly, wincing as it sparked a fresh wave of pain in my thigh. I motioned for him to continue.

"I came here to talk about my brother, incidentally,"

I chuckled, "he's outside you know," I said, jerking my head in that direction.

"I said _about_ my brother, not _to_ my brother," he reminded me condescendingly, "now, as you know, Sherlock is supposed to be in hiding-"

"Which he is,' I interjected quietly.

"yes, but he's also managed to raise a few suspicions in NSY, especially after your little stunt in the warehouse," he said grimly, eying me disapprovingly, "and when I say a few, I really mean- ahem- a lot," I bristled at his interjected blame and opened my mouth to retaliate.

"What I came to say is," he continued, raising his voice slightly, "that I think it is time to arrange his _official _return,"

Ok, I hadn't expected that. I found myself incapable of shutting my mouth.

"-seeing as Sherlock is rather- ah- stubborn about this, I'm leaving it in your capable hands, dear doctor," he smiled fondly, "I will, of course, deal with the press,"

"O-kay..." I managed, still slightly recovering from shock. I nodded, swallowing tightly, "that's fine, I'll convince him,"

"I have every confidence in you... I just believed that it would make everything easier, knowing what Sherlock is like cooped up-" another dry smile.

I grimaced, "I suppose I should thank you then,"

"Indeed," Mycroft got up, straightened his suit slightly, and then grasped my hand.

Just as he reached the door, he seemed to remember something, and turned back.

"Oh, but- umm- be careful, and look out for him,"

I couldn't seem to stop my eyes from narrowing. In my mind, I remembered the last time we had had a conversation like that.

_That's what you were trying to tell me wasn't it? Watch his back, because I've made a mistake…_

"What do you mean?" I asked suspiciously. Mycroft looked at me sternly, and twiddled his umbrella.

"I think I will text you the details, just to prove Sherlock's theory about the dentist wrong," he finished our previous conversation smoothly.

And then he was gone, and Sherlock was back, and I was left wondering what he meant, and how the hell Mycroft had known about the dentist thing Sherlock always mentioned if he texted us.

"What did he want?" demanded Sherlock, who was scowling slightly, and looking very disgruntled.

I shrugged, "just wanted to see how I was doing I guess,"

I suddenly realised that I should have asked him if he knew who had drugged Sherlock yet. Idiot, I grumbled to myself.

Then it was my turn to scowl, "did you really make _your brother_ pay for the best medical treatment?" I said, with the tone of a scolding mother.

He looked surprisingly sheepish.

"I was worried John, I wanted you better,"

I glanced around me, "how long have I been here anyway?"

He ran a hand through his bouncing curls.

"4 days, 2 hours, and 16 minutes to be exact," he replied, making me gape again.

"You've been counting?"

His eyes took on their bruised, puppy look, "I was really worried about you John," he said quietly, "I didn't want to leave you here on your own,"

Again with the gaping! My mouth was really starting to hurt.

"You've stayed here all this time? For 4 days?" I gasped.

He nodded, "and 2 hours and now 17 minutes, yes,"

I sighed, though I have to admit, I was rather touched, "you mean you haven't slept have you?"

He shrugged noncommittally. I sighed again, noting for the first time, the purplish shadows under his eyes.

"4 days?" I said disbelievingly.

He shrugged again, "sleeping is not a necessity for me, it's boring,"

I grinned. Only Sherlock would say something like that.

"What about the case? Is it sorted?" I asked swiftly, changing the subject.

He nodded, "mostly, Emily Jones killed her boyfriend for his money. She hired the killer Mark Goodman to do it for her, but was there when he was murdered. She framed Lestrade's sister, for some reason- that's something I still need to work out. She's been hiding out, using the homeless network to break into her boyfriend's banks-,"

"Hang on, why didn't you think of using the homeless network?"

And then Sherlock looked at me like I was the most idiotic creature he'd ever come across.

"Why do you think?" he said sceptically.

"Oh," I blinked, ignored his look, "continue,"

"Anyway, she was waiting for the funds to go through, in small packages, hence the 'thing that she was supposed to have by now' she was talking about when we cornered her in the warehouse,"

"Why Lestrade's sister?" I wondered aloud.

Sherlock shrugged, "that's what I'm currently investigating,"

I leant back with my head against the wall.

"To be honest I'll be bloody glad when this whole thing is over," I sighed, "it's been too much trouble to be worth it,"

Sherlock shrugged again in response, "I didn't expect it to get this… deep," he waved vaguely at the room, "it was only a small case to begin with, but it's just…"

Suddenly, his eyes cleared, and I knew something had just become obvious to him.

"What?"

"It's all…" he trailed off, muttering something so quietly I couldn't hear it.

"Sorry, what?"

"I need to talk to Lestrade, I've just… I know… Mycroft…"

Ok now he wasn't making any sense at all. I blinked.

"Sherlock…" I tried.

His phone was out, and he started texting quickly, fingers flying across the screen.

"Any point in asking what's going on?" I muttered irritably. I hated getting left in the dark. It just reminded me how little he trusted me.

"It's nothing important John," he said deftly, "just something I need to sort out…"

There's me, proving my point. No trust. At all. I sighed.

"Fine, ok,"

His head snapped up at my defeated tone, looking confused.

"Just get on with whatever you're doing," I snapped, rather more harshly than I should have.

And he did.

_A/n: hope you enjoyed it and a review or two would make my day! X _


	35. Chapter 35 Emily Jones

Chapter 35- Emily Jones

_A/n: sorry about the delay, I've been so busy this week! Thank you to Tony Stark, the guest and mvignal who all reviewed me last chapter, I am really grateful!_

_Anyway, here is the next chapter; I hope you all enjoy it! Xxx _

GL

I hated interviews. Especially ones with 'confirmed' killers. It took a lot of restraint on my part not to start hitting them there and then. It was terrible.

The interview with Emily Jones was no different.

For a while before entering the small interview room I stood behind the tinted, one sided glass window scowling at her though it, wishing that I didn't have to go in there.

But, of course, I had to go in in order to find out everything. And finally, _finally _wrap the case up.

Emily jones sat sneering at the ceiling. She looked incredibly scruffy, her long blond hair had none of the shine it had had in the pictures. As I opened the door, her sneer switched straight to me.

It was in that moment that I wanted to launch myself at her. I remembered the poor sod found strangled in the backstreet.

But instead, I ignored her gaze, and circled her slowly, observing her through narrowed eyes.

"Emily Jones-" I began calmly, when she snorted.

"I hope you're going to explain all this to me," she spat furiously, "I want to know why a lunatic in a black trench coat attacked me and also why I'm in here anyway,"

"Oh I think you know exactly why you're here, Emily Jones..." I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible, "first, I have some questions for _you_,"

I pause in my circling to in front of her and leant over the desk so that I'm face to face.

"What are you doing this part of London, Miss Jones?"

Her eyes widened.

"Excuse me?"

"You have a house located in Oxford, why the hell are you sleeping, _homeless, _I might add in this part of town, huh?"

She visibly swallowed, but said nothing. Her eyes flashed with anger and hatred.

"Ok, let's just say the quicker you talk, the less painless it will be,"

She glared at me.

"I needed to get something done over here," she said. I waited, but that seemed to be the only answer I was going to get. I huffed, and then pulled out my phone. I realized that I had a text from Sherlock, saying that he had an idea.

_Perfect. _

"What are you doing?" she suddenly snapped, as I pressed the call button.

"Calling someone that _will _get the answers from you!" I said sharply.

JW

Sherlock's phone rang. It was lying rather sorrily on the floor by the window, where it had landed when Sherlock had threw it earlier.

Before you ask, yes, he did have a tantrum. In the middle of my hospital room. When I was being tended to by at least 4 doctors at one time.

Let's just say I nearly died of embarrassment.

But hey, his phone was by the window.

And it's buzzing. And it's ringing. And Sherlock just sat there glaring at it.

"Sher- Sherlock," I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, "the phone's ringing,"

"Yes,"

I waited for more response, but nothing happened.

"Sherlock..."

"Shut up please,"

"No!" I shouted, suddenly furious, irritated and wary all at once. Today was not the best of days either. I ached, "just pick up the bloody phone!"

Sherlock shot me a scathing glare, but hauled himself out of the chair to pick it up, anyway, taking his own sweet time doing it, by the way. He dragged himself across the room and picked up the phone. Then he gazed at it calmly while it buzzed in his hand.

"Ans-wer. It," I said through grittier teeth.

Another glare and, finally, he pressed the answer button.

"Hello?"

I saw his eyes widen. His lips part in surprise.

"What?" I press, suddenly intrigued. He raised his hand to shut me up while he listened.

"Yes I need to talk but- something like that yeah- but, I can't, you know I can't,"

More silence, though if I listened really carefully, I could hear the slight buzz of a voice on the other end of the line.

"Are you sure it's secure? Are you positive? Because if anyone sees me, my cover is blown!"

...

"Fine! Fine! Yes, yes, meet me outside in five," he put the phone down, and gave me one of his mysterious lop-sided smiles. I blinked rapidly.

"What's going on?" I said immediately, as he put the phone in his pocket, and pulled on his coat.

"Lestrade saw my text, he wants to talk," he said, with a grin.

"You're going?" I gasped. He nodded.

"Of course, I'm not going to miss a chance like this! I'm about to solve the case! I need to go! And I have an idea!"

So I sighed, extremely irritated that I couldn't go with him.

He seemed to understand for his brow creased.

"I'm sorry John, but I have to go!"

"I know, I know, go have fun!" I waved him off. He flashed me a small grin, and was out the door in a flash. The door swung shut behind him, and I silently watched his silhouette fly past the window, where the closed blinds hid the full view.

Then, I let my head fall back on the pillow with a soft thud. Now Sherlock wasn't there to distract me, the pain seemed to be the first thing in my mind.

I ached all over. The blood transfusions had made me feel ill, and the bullet wound had been re-stitched, which made it really sore. And now I had no distraction.

I closed my eyes.

"Umm, Mister Watson?"

I looked up, "_Dr _Watson," I correct automatically.

The doctor looks slightly abashed, but otherwise ignores me.

"Urrr- yes, well the results have come back, and the infection has been fully cleared, your blood is now clean,"

I smile weakly, "that's great! When do you think I'll be outa here?"

"Well, I would say perhaps another few days, just to make sure you're recovering normally, but I think you'll definitely be out by Monday," he said cheerfully.

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I hated hospitals. I really did. It would be amazing to finally get home again.

And to find out what the hell was going on.

GL

"You said you needed me?"

I jumped violently from my place standing outside St Bart's waiting room.

I spun around. It was Sherlock, who had somehow managed to sneak up behind me.

"Jesus!" I gasped, trying to slow my racing heart, "don't do that!"

Sherlock smirked.

"You said you needed me?" he repeated, firmly.

"Uh, yeah, I need you to come with me to NSY and get answers out of Emily Jones-,"

"Pointless, she won't talk, she's not going to give answers freely," he cut through me.

"What- do you mean?" I stammered.

He sighed rolling his eyes.

"I _mean _she's not going to speak freely,"

"But-,"

"Fortunately," he said loudly, cutting through me again, "I have a better idea,"

I scowled, crossed my arms haughtily, "oh?"

"We already know that she was using the homeless network for means of communication and robbery, so we need to speak to them,"

"How-?"

"I have connections with a few of them, we can contact them, see if they have any answers,"

"o-kay," I said slowly, finding it hard to keep up with his whirring mind, "where can we find them then?"

His gaze flickered around the room, probably making sure no one was watching.

"Try Vauxhall Arches, there's someone there I know well,"

"Ok, but don't they think you're dead?" I asked skeptically.

"No, she knows," he said with a swift smile, "I haven't been able to contact her before because she's not been there,"

"Then how do you-,"

He lifted his phone, "text,"

"Oh," I sighed, obviously I was going to have to ferry him around again, though I'm not complaining. Anything to get the bloody case finished, "ok, fine, let's go,"

And then I lead him down to my car.

_A/n: ok, so before I forget, I have something to run through with you all. I have currently two options as to what to do with this story. I can either finish it off in this story, for I have an idea for that, or I can extend it to a sequel, which I have an idea for also. So I want to know what you guys would prefer me to do. I honestly don't mind what you choose, and I'll probably go with the majority, if I get enough replies. So I don't mind._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and a review or two would be really appreciated! X _


	36. Chapter 36 Loose Ends

Chapter 36- Loose Ends

_A/n: so of the people who replied, 4 out of 5 said sequel, so, as I said I would go with majority, I will do a sequel. However, I will try and end Shadows in a way so that anyone who wants to stop reading at Shadows can do so without too much trouble. _

_This is the last chapter guys! Omg I can't believe it! I just want to say thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you so much to everyone who has taken a chance on this story and has stuck with it all the way through, I love you guys so much! I really hope you have enjoyed it! It's actually quite emotional! My first fanficition finished!_

_Anyway, here is the last chapter! It's not the most creative of endings but I hope you enjoy it and I've done the ending well! Xxx _

SH

By the time we got to Vauxhall Arches, the sky was already darkening, and the shadows began to creep up on us. A quick glance at my watch told me it was 5.30.

I lead Lestrade down the grimy path, past many of the vast darkened cave- like arches that framed the place. I remembered the time when John and I had been down here last- when we had been searching for the Golem. And the last time I had been here. On the day after my 'death', talking with Sky.

Sky was the girl whom I had come to see. She had been so helpful to me in the past 5 months, and I was only hoping she would be as useful now. The text she had sent me via her 'borrowed' phone had been hopeful.

I stopped six columns down, and glancing around the seemingly deserted arch, brought out my phone.

I'm here, SH

"Where is she?" Lestrade hissed, his breath steaming up in the frigid air. I motioned for him to shut up silently, my phone in my hand, waiting.

One of the shadows moved, as a slight figure slid out from behind the black arch opposite us. She hurried up to us, her features becoming clearer as she moved away from the darkness and into the light.

It was Sky.

She looked tired, and more dirty than usual, her auburn hair falling un-kept into her face, but she smiled when she saw me.

"I dain't think you'd actually come," she said quietly, in her thick cockney accent. She nodded her head to Lestrade, who had tensed up beside me, " 'oos this?"

"A friend," I replied, "you said you had information regarding a certain Emily Jones?"

"Aye," she nodded, sucking on her bottom lip, "I 'ave alrigh'. She's been around 'ere a lot, bragging 'bout her plans,"

"What plans?" Lestrade asked sharply, "tell us everything,"

"I dain't know everythin'," she replied, somewhat haughtily.

"Well tell us what you know," I said impatiently, biting my tongue to stop myself from correcting her words whenever she said something that completely destroyed the English language.

She shifted uncomfortably, hands deep in her pockets.

"I know she was workin' for 'im before, you know," she cocked her head to one side, as if trying to encourage the answer from us.

"For who?" Lestrade questioned.

"Moriarty," I said in an undertone, watching as Sky shivered slightly. I knew that most people in 'the underworld' hated saying his name, because they were scared. Fortunately, most people now knew he was dead, the papers had said as much. But his name was still a taboo. Sometimes even I shivered, as much as I hated to admit it. I remembered his words _'I will burn the heart out of you'._

"Emily Jones was working for Moriarty?" Lestrade spluttered, flabbergasted, bringing me back to the present situation.

"Of course," I whispered, the whole thing suddenly becoming much clearer, "of course she was, who else would she be working for?"

"But he's dead!"

"What else?" I asked Sky, calmly, though I thought I already knew.

She was silent for a few moments, running a hand through her hair.

"She kep' talkin' 'bout something she was plannin', like something' to do with you," she nodded at me, "like revenge' she said,"

"I don't understand," Lestrade admitted.

I turned to him, the last missing pieces fitting neatly into place.

"Listen, Emily Jones was working for Moriarty, and Moriarty pays handsomely when he wants to, you should have seen some of his higher ranking men. She was getting money in from him for all the work she did, she was dependant on it. When he died, obviously that all went away. She suddenly went from having a nice monthly sum to absolutely nothing. She was homeless. And now she wants revenge,"

"Revenge?"

"Yes, revenge on me, for killing Moriarty,"

"But you didn't he shot himself!"

I sighed.

"But I was in a way responsible for him killing himself! Don't you see?"

"How do you know this?" Lestrade asked weakly.

"I observe," I remarked dryly, "remember that house in Oxford? Remember how she killed her boyfriend for his money? She's desperate! And framing your sister for the murder, she knew it would interest me! She knew I would do it for you because I work with you a lot, in a way, it was clever! And the drugging! I bet it was her! It was all personal, trying to get to me, trying to get me interested! And then she started planting clues, all to get me following her! What was her plan Sky?" I suddenly asked my voice bubbly and excited.

She jumped, obviously not expecting the question.

"To kill you," she whispered.

I nodded, I was expecting that.

"Revenge," Lestrade repeated, comprehension dawning in his voice. He turned to me, "you knew this?"

"I had suspicions," I said truthfully, "in the end it was obvious,"

"So, so the case is finished then?" Lestrade asked, sounding very much relieved at the prospect. Though to be honest, I was too.

"Yes, it's solved, we know her motives, her reasons, we have proof, you can go and do what you do best, and lock her up," I grinned at him.

"Pleasure," he said dryly, pulling out his phone.

"Thank you," I said to Sky, who shrugged.

"I dain't say much, it was you who worked it ou'," she smiled briefly, then passed me a letter, "I go' 'anded this a few days ago, dunno wha' it is,"

I took it from her curiously, "who gave it you?"

She shrugged again, "some bloke, I dain't see 'is face,"

I looked down at the dirty piece of folded paper, then stuffed it in my pocket. I'd had enough of mystery to last me at least a day. Right now I just wanted to go back to John, and stay with him until he got better, and actually have time to appreciate that I had him with me.

"Ain't you gonna read it?" she asked suspiciously, watching me closely.

"I will later," I said quietly, and then nodded to her, "thanks again," I passed her a £50 note as I usually did when she gave me information. She grinned, and turned away. I watched her retreating back until it dissolved in the shadows.

Lestrade came over, and I fell into step beside him.

"I know that you still think the whole, solving cases, thing is a bad idea, but to be honest, I wouldn't have been able to solve it without you,"

"I know," I said pleasantly.

The place was briefly filled with golden light as Lestrade's car winked at us; he unlocked it.

"How's John?" he asked, climbing in and starting the engine. It hummed reassuringly.

"Better,"

"Good, that's good, do you mind if I come in and see him with you?"

"Why?" I asked, immediately on my guard.

His expression was one torn between amusement and exasperation, "He's my mate as well you know,"

I fell silent, staring out the window.

JW

When my hospital room door was beeped open once more, I could immediately see from the looks on their faces that they'd got it solved. This just made me all the more irritated that I hadn't been able to go along with them. Though I was surprised that Lestrade was here.

"Well?" I asked, sitting up slightly.

"solved, all clear and perfect," Sherlock grinned, "she wanted revenge for Moriarty's death, and tried to kill us all in the process, it was mainly for money, she framed Lestrade's sister, drugged me, and left all those clues all to try and get me interested, and she tried, and failed, to trap me,"

It was all said so fast my mind could hardly keep up. I blinked a couple of times to try and clear it.

"Wait, she was working for Moriarty?" I gasped, trying to sort out one of the few thinks my mind had managed to comprehend from the stream of words.

"Yes, she was, that's where she got all her money,"

"Oh," I managed.

Lestrade grinned at the look on my face.

"Yeah, I know, that's how I felt when I found out,"

"So- so this is all sorted? We've solved the case?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"That's great! Well done!" I praised weakly, making Sherlock beam.

"Thanks,"

I turned to Lestrade, "at least now you have proof that it wasn't your sister,"

" Yeah I know, and I can get her locked up,"

"And I need to talk to Mycroft," Sherlock said suddenly.

There were two things wrong with that sentence.

The fact that Sherlock was actually going to _phone _someone, which he rarely ever did. And that fact that it was _Mycroft _who he was phoning.

I stared at him.

"o-kay," I cast a bewildered glance in Lestrade's direction, who looked just as non-plussed as me.

He ignored both of our questioning looks, and went outside the room, leaving the door propped open slightly so as to stop himself getting locked out. However even then, the conversation was so muffled I couldn't make it out.

"So how are you doing?" Lestrade asked me, by means of making conversation.

"A lot better thanks," I said with a sigh, "I suppose I owe some of it to you, getting the ambulance to me so quickly you know?"

He shrugged, "it was the least I could do,"

I smiled. I was so relieved that the whole thing was over. I could look forward to going home, with Sherlock, and actually appreciate that he was back, and back for good.

And then the door opened, and my happiness immediately melted away.

Sherlock's face was as white as a sheet, what little colour he had in his cheeks completely gone. His phone was held slack in his hand. He looked stunned.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, looking uneasy.

"Are you ok?" I asked, frankly alarmed that a phone call could cause so much change.

He shook his head.

"What is it? What's wrong? Is Mycroft ok?" I responded immediately.

"Mycroft's fine," he muttered weakly.

"Well what is it then?"

He was silent for what seemed like a lifetime. He seemed to be wondering if he should say whatever it was that was worrying him. Meanwhile, Lestrade and I sat with bated breath, tension rolling off us in waves.

And then he spoke. He looked up, stared right into my eyes.

"Sebastian Moran has escaped from prison,"

**To be continued…**

_A/n: Ahhhhhhhhh, so when I said that you could stop at this story without too much trouble, I kinda lied a little. But you still can still leave it here if you want to! Omg I really hope the ending was alright! Omg I can't believe I've finished a story! Please tell me what you think! A review or two would be lovely._

_The sequel will be called __**Flickering Light**__, and for everyone who is not following me I will update this author's note when I have put the first chapter up!_

_But for now its goodbye and an absolutely massive thank you and a BIG hug to all of you lovely people for sticking with me through Shadows I love you all! I think I've said that twice now! But I really do! _

_Thank you guys! Xxxxxxxxxx_

**_Update: _**_Flickering Light is now up! :D_


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